Ungeziefer
by Diet of Wurms
Summary: A drug lord has abducted a member of the Wolfram and Hart team; Angel, as its new CEO, must respond. But what if, this time, there is no way to be the knight in shining armor? What if no one gets their happy ending? Warnings inside.
1. Book 1: The Roach in the Cupboard

**Ungeziefer**

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><p>Warnings: Language, disturbing themes, violencegore. Drug use. Sexual violence/rape. Death. I guess what I'm trying to say it this is a heavily dark story.  
>Slash later on (not Spangel).<p>

It starts off from, and then veers far from, the middle of season 5.

Title is the German word for "vermin"- -it can apply to invertebrates, insects, rodents, and other such things.

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><p>BOOK 1 - The Roach In the Cupboard<p>

_1994_  
><em>Village on Outskirts of Srebrenica, Bosnia<em>

The enemies came in with such savagery, swiftness, and teeth that the people screamed, "Wolves! Wolves!"

The people were very near to the truth.

The Serbians charged in, dressed in camouflage and black vests, some donning dark eyeglasses and others cupping their bald heads in wide-brim hats. They moved in clusters of guns and mortar, wove between houses over the noise of shells thundering against roofs. Cries cut in the early morning, splitting and tormented; houses crumpled under the force of lapping, all-consuming flames.

The foot soldiers moved like a pack, carving out men from fleeing families.

These were the noises and sights that the young girl witnessed from her bedroom window, where she stood too paralyzed with fear to move. All she managed to do was tighten the hijab about her head, murmur prayers to keep the Serbian wolves from sniffing them out.

A Serb looked up at her window and she ducked down, knocking her forehead against the hardwood floor. With her ear against the planks, she could hear the thudding and crashing from below, as if hell had tired of its burial and now beat its way into her breast. Then came noises that were unmistakable: the breaking of their front door, the protective and short-lived roar of her father, the hysteria of her mother.

It took every ounce of her courage, but she crawled, her belly rubbing along the floor like a lizard's, across the room and to the door. She pried it open, every hair on her skin stiffening with fright; all she could see at the end of the hall were shadows ripping upward like angry wings, rejoined with a loud crowing of men.

Sweat poured from her forehead. A paralyzing dread and curiosity came over her until her limbs, still numb, dragged her closer to the shadows, almost without her permission.

Her mother was screaming and the men were calling her a whore.

Finally one clucked, "I saw another one upstairs."

Why did her legs feel so heavy? Why did she lay frozen for a moment too long at the top of those stairs, wondering if she misheard, until boots hammered the stairs? Their eyes glinted like irons in a fire, their tongues wagged. The man who reached her first, who grabbed her by the hair and struck her when she screamed, smelled like yeast and gun oil. She scrabbled for the floor by her nails, hoping to grab hold of something, anything.

Her throat ached from her own howling, and the man's hand circled her throat, squeezed playfully. "No, no, no," he cooed, noting her fear. "We wouldn't kill a pretty thing like you."

The moments went on for an agony, splitting her head against wooden boards, numbing her ears to any noise but her own frantic heartbeat. The man whinnied, grappled with her limbs as if she were a doll, snickered at the pain she inflicted on his arms with her fingers.

"Are you a virgin?"

She answered with a roar and a bite into his forearm. This proved more effective, but didn't save her: her attacker snarled and responded by flailing her body against the wall, then slamming her, stiff as a board, onto the floor. Blood streamed down his arm and pooled from her broken nose, spraying in gasps about the painted surface of her home.

"You little whore!" he growled, ready to maul her. As his hands squeezed into her arms, crushing her under his weight, she let out another shriek and lashed out her fingers, if only to scratch him, pluck out his eyes. He yanked at her headscarf, then at her dress, lifting it, pushing her down, grunting- -

"Radoslav."

The girl went mute; the man on top of her turned his head to the soldier standing in the doorway, and looked questioningly at him.

"Sergeant General has arrived."

Radoslav's eyes returned to the girl's, staring deeply into her wet expression, which was now tempted with relief- -she thought she may be spared, but he bared his teeth, slid his tongue slowly across his lips. The more she panted like a frightened animal, the more he felt pleasure run up his thighs and cheeks.

The soldier watched as Radoslav slid his hand along the girl's stomach. "You'll have to give me a few minutes."

The soldier moved along and the girl writhed in heartbroken agony. It was between her howling screams, her pleas for her mother, and his bated breath that he withdrew his cigarette from his mouth and squeezed the sizzling tip against her lips. The burn caused her to shriek again, then turn to desperate sobbing.

"_Allah! Allah_!"

"_Da, da, bog nek' te sacuva_," he whispered, thrusting her skirt up over her stomach. "May God save you."

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><p>UP NEXT: A visitor comes to Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike feels excluded, and people close to Angel are put in danger...<p> 


	2. Book 1, Chapter 1: The First Man

Book 1 - Chapter 1: The First Man

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><p><em>Present Day<em>

Spike had kept himself occupied almost the entire morning solely with his thumbs against his gameboy, so it took an especially curious character in Wolfram and Hart to, at last, draw his attention up from the screen.

A middle-aged man, sturdy and well-built, dressed loftily in a loose, dark suit and white dress shirt beneath, stood tapping his foot in the hallway, shades pretentiously balanced at the tip of his nose. He had a greasy air about him, slimy, even-but his skin was taut and freshly colored, and his black European hair, slicked back evenly on his head, was noxiously clean. His chin, too, was recently shaved and smoothed. The grease was coming from elsewhere. That is, a bit more beneath the skin.

Perhaps it was the way he ogled at the various women who slipped past. Perhaps it was his self-confidence that permeated the entire floor and greedily drank in everyone's attention and awe. He was at least forty but held the snotty arrogance of a twenty-year-old, as if he believed himself immortal.

Yes- -that must be it. That was why Spike knew he loathed him the moment he caught sight of him. Only vampires had the right to strut about and pretend to be gods.

_Hell,_ he thought, _we're __**actually**__ immortal, unlike this git._

Yet there was something else, Spike conceded, that he didn't like about this thin-lipped, parchment-skinned gangster who now, bored beyond reason, chatted with his bodyguard and drew his finger about the gold chain at his neck. Spike had always prided himself in his ability to measure up people, but the man proved somewhat foggy and disconcerting. His sixth sense caught a whiff of what threat lay beneath the neatly-dressed surface, as if, by no stretch of the imagination, he could suspect the man capable of coolly sawing children's throats.

The man turned suddenly. Spike averted his eyes back to his game, but his staring hadn't gone unnoticed; now the thug was looking right back at him and, in a bout of curiosity, approached from across the hall. Spike sensed when the man arrived and stood over him, but tried to ignore him. He wasn't in a chatty mood.

Finally, though, the man was standing in the way of his light, so he crankily snapped, "You mind? I'm trying to catch 'em all, here."

The man blinked and tilted his head, answering in a lilting, Slavic accent that enriched every word. "I am, ah, sorry, but I am looking for the office of CEO?"

"Other side of the lift."

The brief confusion was worth the time it took to gesture to the elevator and point out the mistake. Spike thought the exchange was finished and returned to his game, but the man lingered to speak up once more.

"Pardon. But... Why do you play children's toy?"

"It's a serious game," Spike said facetiously, hoping the man would go away if contradicted enough. "Represents man's desire to round up small critters and force 'em tooff each other."

"You look idle."

"No, really, hard at work here," Spike informed him, pointing to his game.

"It's a shame," the man said with an air of pity, touching his shoulder. "A capable man like yourself wasting away here."

Spike quickly took aversion to this line of conversation. He jerked the man's arm from him and glared at him menacingly. "Woah, now! Keep your feelers to yourself."

The man wrinkled his brow in confusion for a moment, then laughed apologetically. "I'm sorry. Please, I beg you. I mean only to inform you that my business has many exciting openings at the moment." He plucked a business card from his front coat pocket and placed it on the table. "Should you ever find yourself, mmm, unoccupied, give us a call."

With that, the man had a brief exchange with his bodyguards in a language Spike didn't know and proceeded to walk away. Spike returned to his hand-held game, but not before dusting off his shoulder and muttering in disgust, "Bloody creep."

* * *

><p>Angel might have been a hypocrite for thinking so, but he was growing weary and suspicious of anyone who came to his office without a last name. He tapped a pen against the desk and glanced again at the file Gunn had prepared.<p>

RADOSLAV.

His phone buzzed. "What is it, Harmony?"

"_The, uh, client's ready to see you._"

He glanced up. Charles Gunn joined him on one side with papers in hand; he nodded to assure Angel of his own preparedness, but the vampire remained unconvinced. From everything they had heard, this would not be a typical case-getting the man to appear took almost a month of work, and even with him in the building, details about him were elusive. Wesley surmised the man was from eastern Europe, a rather obvious assumption but nonetheless all they had.

He tapped the pen again. _Radoslav..._

"Tell him to wait just a few more minutes."

Harmony was surprisingly cross upon receiving this request. "_He's getting impatient. And for the record, boss, I'm pretty sure what he's doing to me is sexual harassment_."

Angel sighed and relented. "Well- -" He glanced up at Gunn, who didn't verbally respond but shrugged, implying it was now or never. "- -All right, send him in."

"Just relax," Gunn said. He smirked and adjusted his tie, his usual confident self. "It's nothing we haven't dealt with before."

Levels of confidence aside, they must have been quite the sight for the drug lord when the man at last entered. His bodyguards moved automatically around him, propping the door, scurrying to the chair to prepare it for him, carrying his things. Radoslav somewhat rudely stared at them as he took his seat- -without asking. He cocked his head, taking a moment to read Angel's flustered, mute face.

Angel had several times tried to stammer out a greeting, but each time he hadn't gotten the man's attention. Now that Radoslav seemed rapt, Angel straightened the piece of paper on his desk, twitched, and falsely produced a smile. "So- -hello, Radoslav, glad to finally meet you in person. I'm Angel, and this is my associate, Mr. Charles Gunn."

"Yes, yes, yes." They waited for the man to signal some sort of desire for a handshake or otherwise formally meet him, but he sank contently into his seat, uninterested in moving. He grinned jovially and gestured his hands broadly. "Mr. Angel!"

"Just 'Angel.'"

"Fine, sir. Fine. I am glad to be here among friends and associates to discuss business matters. As opening gesture, I bring humble gift. I hope it pleases you." Radoslav turned to the guard on his right, motioned casually for him to approach. He watched Angel's expression turn to confusion as his guard placed a polished wooden box onthe desk.

The vampire sat upright and, with great uncertainty, pulled the box toward him. "Oh," he said aloud. Usually when he made calls like this, the offending party stormed in with questions and demands, not flattery and gifts. Perhaps the man was just confused?

Angel made a move to open it, and Radoslav cut in, "With your interest in my business, I thought it only appropriate to give you sample of my product."

"Your business..." Angel paused, his fingers dangling just above the latch. He frowned and momentarily took his hands back. "You mean drugs."

"Recreational substances for demons. It works for vampires as well."

For a good few moments, Angel thought the man was joking. Just to be certain what was taking place, he swiftly popped open the box, stared at the contents-a clear brown bottle with liquid sealed inside-and closed it shut. He exchanged a dumbfounded look with Gunn.

"You cannot quote me on this," Radoslav continued, apparently oblivious to Angel's shock, "because this particular mixture does not work on humans." The man grinned. "I have heard from my customers, however, that it's better than sex."

"This is... very generous of you, Radoslav, but, er, I'm afraid you've misunderstood. I can't accept this."

"It's not illegal, if this worries you."

Angel handed back the box and tepidly folded his hands together on the desk. "Actually, we're here to discuss some... concerns about the way you run your business. See, since you chose to start up a branch in L.A., we've had some cases of demon rampages resulting in some pretty nasty deaths."

"Bugs are prone to such behavior," Radoslav answered flatly.

"These demons were fully integrated," Gunn interrupted, stepping forward. "They were completely peaceful-until your drugs entered their system."

Radoslav scoffed. "Am I to be held responsible for everything the bugs do while using my product? Perhaps you talk to local bar owners, too? The Senior Partners-"

"The Senior Partners aren't backing you anymore," Angel explained calmly. "They hinted to me that quite a few of your customers are disappearing, including some rather... important demons."

"I cannot help that my customers, with their, mmm, turbulent lifestyle, at times cannot be found. These accusations are insult." Radoslav, however, didn't appear too insulted. There was a coyness to his denial that made his guilt at the more obvious, but taunted them with lack of proof.

"Mr. Radoslav, we're not here to shut you down," Angel began, standing to his feet and deciding to temper the mood with a drink. "If we could negotiate some slight ethical changes-eliminate a few troubling products-we can all walk away from this happier for it."

"Here I am," Radoslav spoke in disappointment, gesturing about the office, "sitting in Wolfram & Hart-a place of friendship for me, a place of sanctuary. And here, I am being bombarded with questions of ethics? Am I now clown to you?"

"As the new CEO, I have keen interest in keeping you in check."

The remainder of Radoslav's contentment melted. His eyes turned distinctly chilly, his manner calculating. He turned his head to one of his bodyguards, said something aloud in a foreign language, and the two shared a laugh. "I have no interest in being kept," he finally said. "I am a businessman. I sell what my customers desire. What I do is not illegal."

Gunn abruptly placed a briefcase on the desk and opened up. "Are you certain about that? Because I ran some of your ingredients, and a number of the plants are on the protected species list."

Radoslav was unimpressed. "Little brown-suit conservationists do not frighten me terribly."

"Try international law." With this, Gunn whipped out a list and handed it to him. "The fines alone for smuggling the plants could bankrupt you."

The paper sat pinched in Radoslav's vice-like grip, fluttering over his palm. He did not move to look at it.

"No one wants that, Radoslav," Angel said. Confident that they had at last cornered him, Angel sat back in his chair and offered amiably, "That's the list of products I'd like out of my city. While you're making your decision- -"

Radoslav's eyes remained cemented on Angel's face, giving him a gaze that implied by his very will he might take him apart atom by atom. Before Angel could finish his offer, the hand in which Radoslav held the list tensed and crumpled it. No one spoke, not even after Radoslav tossed the ball of paper to the floor like waste. The man still stared and seethed icily, "You would reduce me to selling children's aspirin."

Gunn and Angel exchanged startled looks; this wasn't exactly the reaction they had anticipated. Angel tried to smooth things over. "If you would just look at the list, I think you'll find our requests are quite reasonable- -"

"I am afraid I must leave now."

Radoslav stood to his feet and everyone followed suit, as it was clear now the meeting had ended. Dizzied by the harsh turn of events, Angel circled his desk. "Would you like a drink before you go?"

The drug lord ignored him and held out his hand. "I thank you. Let's keep in touch."

The vampire looked about the room, noting the cold expressions of the man's attendants and Gunn's arched eyebrows; reluctantly, and with a sense of defeat, he clasped

the man's hand into his own and gave it a firm shake. "Count on it," was all he could think to say.

Time seemed to slow for just a sliver of a moment when Radoslav held Angel's hand a little too long and, before releasing his grip, cocked an eyebrow at him.

_What the hell?_

Before he could say anything else, Radoslav and his men left the room; just outside the door, the European began to rant in Serbian to his guards. "Bug puts on a suit and thinks he can pass for someone important," he fumed, making violent gestures with his fingers. "_Jebo! _I will learn him!"

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><p>By the time Fred was starting for the meeting, she had thought she was late and felt such guilt on that account that she had awkwardly trotted the entire distance. Fortunately, she had opted against heels for the day, else she might have twisted her ankle over nothing; she opened the door to Angel's office and found, in fact, only Wesley in attendance.<p>

"Did I misread the memo?"

Wesley, surprised by her presence, glanced up from what appeared to be an engrossing read on ancient Tibetan religion. "Memo?"

"About the meeting?" She gestured at her watch. "The one that was supposed to start... Ten minutes ago?"

"Oh, that. No, I'm afraid you weren't mistaken." Wesley ruefully sat back in the seat, and welcomed her with a nod. "As far I can tell, everyone's a tad... Behind schedule today."

The former Watcher, without any more to add, returned to his reading, and Fred silently took a seat. She hadn't brought any materials-a regrettable decision, it quickly turned out, as she had little to do but shuffle her feet, fiddle with the hem of her skirt, and struggle to revive the conversation. "So-Spike, I can understand, he's always late..."

"It's just as well. Angel's not in a good mood," Wesley observed, still not looking up from his book. After a moment he amended, "In less of a good mood than usual, anyhow."

"Oh." Fred frowned. "I guess the 'important meeting' with that client didn't go well?"

"Drug lords aren't known for their flexibility," Wesley noted curtly. "I suspect we'll receive a full debriefing on the matter."

Wesley's eyes trailed outside, watching as Spike, miraculously intent on attending the meeting, drew near. The vampire was still fiddling with his game, and narrowly missed walking into the wall on his way in. When he looked up and saw their stares, he played it off- -a quick "I-meant-to-do-that" sniff- -and flicked the game off. "Yello."

"Hey." Fred didn't hold back the smile she always saved for him. "What's up with you?"

Spike flopped into a chair at the other end of the table and gave it a full whirl before answering. "Got lost in a cave-nothing but bats. Got bored."

"What?"

"In this pocket-digi-monster-what-have-you game." Spike popped out the cartridge and gave it a disdainful look. "Not sure why Charlie-boy thought I'd like this."

Wesley, making a grasp at conversation to make the next few minutes move along, mentioned, "The English translation ended up losing a lot of the original demonic worship subtext."

Spike nearly opened his mouth to ask why on earth Wesley knew this, but huffed disparagingly instead.

"Well," Fred said helplessly, "I've just seen the cartoon."

"The cartoon also had demonic- -"

"I take back bringing it up," Spike interrupted with a growl, snapping the game back into the slot and stuffing the hand-held into his jacket. "So what's up with that Euro-greaseball?"

Wesley and Fred exchanged glances, and Wesley gave in. "He's not playing nice."

"Ooh," Spike quipped, straightening up with a perk. "Do we get to off him?"

"I don't think that will be necessary." He frowned at Spike's discontented change in demeanor. "Why?"

"Nothing." Spike, clearly pouting, threw himself across the chair and spun on its axis. "Got a vibe off him, is all."

"...'Vibe'?" Fred asked.

"Vampire thing," he responded flatly. "Creepy guy, creepy vibe."

As Spike spoke and adjusted into his chair, Gunn and Angel entered through the doorway. Gunn, overhearing Spike's assessment, agreed. "You don't need to be a vamp to read him."

Wesley at last slipped his book back into his case, eying Angel intently. Though the client meeting had been at least an hour ago, the vampire still carried a sullen look about him. "Ah, Angel. How was it?" he inquired, though he could practically read a play-by-play from his scowl.

Angel and Gunn took a seat; Angel groaned lightly. "He gave me drugs, sneered at our threats, and... I think he made a pass at me."

"No accounting for taste," Spike quipped. He carefully declined to mention his own brush with the man. He smoothed his coat, casually asking, "...Was it Bright?"

"Was what bright?"

"The _stuff._"

The others turned their heads to stare and Angel, puzzled by this line of questioning, indulged Spike's curiosity. "Bright? I don't know... It was kind of shiny?"

"No, it's the name. 'Bright.' Supposed to be better than sex."

Angel impatiently tapped a pen against the table and muttered for all to hear, "...How am I not surprised you know this?"

"So, where is it, then? I mean, if you're not going to use it- -"

"- -I gave it back, Spike."

"Stick in the mud." Spike finally noticed the others giving him exceptionally critical stares. He shrugged despondently. "What? A bloke can't have some fun in his down-time?"

Wesley finally put a stop to their banter with a clearing of his throat. "As... Entertaining as this is, perhaps it's time to develop a strategy?"

"Radoslav depends on large shipments of materials in the harbor," Gunn began. "He's only ever gotten shipments through because he pays off the inspectors."

Angel confidently finished his thought. "Which means, of course, our next move is to outbid him. Wes, I'd like you and Gunn to get the inspectors to see reason; any squeeze on his resources will put a squeeze on business as a whole."

"I like my killing-him plan better," Spike said.

Angel pretended not to have heard him, but a tell-tale twitch at his eyelid showed differently. The others simply hid their smirks. "Fred, there are some dissections I'd like you to do on an infestation... Also, I'm having the science department do a full-run analysis of the different drug compounds on the market. I want to know what sort of impact we might be dealing with."

Folders neatly packed with lists and details found their way to each of them- -aside from Spike, that is. Spike glanced about the room, watching the others shuffle their papers. Though not one to volunteer for work, he felt distinctly left out. "What about me? I don't get a fancy folder?"

Angel looked at him strangely. "You don't have an assignment."

This wasn't new, but Spike suspiciously cocked an eyebrow. He had been summoned to the meeting; at least, that was the sense he had gathered. "Then why am I here?"

"That's a good question, _Spike_." Angel patently ignored everyone's discomfort and proceeded to glower in Spike's direction. "Why _are_ you here?"

"'Here,' meaning Wolfram & Hart, or 'here' in the universe as we know it? 'Cause I can get existential if you want."

But Angel, by his misdirected glare into empty space, signaled that it was the end of the discussion. He irritably closed his file and slipped out, briefly mumbling after them, "You have your assignments."

* * *

><p>Spike, happily unoccupied- -though he later offered to 'write up that assassination plan I had going' (Wesley politely declined)- - decided to make the most of his evening. He first followed a habit he had yet to drop from his days as a ghost: haunting Fred in her lab.<p>

He knew she noticed him; there was no avoiding that. The trail had practically become routine, and catching her by surprise had no straight advantage, so he didn't bother. Evening had come, bringing down the light in the lab to a cool, uneven level, tinted with the faint glow of machines and instruments. Spike watched her neaten her desk, all alone for the time-being; the staff had all left for the night, leaving her to tie up loose ends.

Good girl, he absently thought. Thin, spindly arms arching in the dark, hair finally starting to unravel from her day's effort to contain its form, glasses perched at the end of his delicate nose. Even when exhaustion and hunger pressed her, she poked onward, ready to work to death. A shame, really.

Fred, despite knowing Spike was behind her, still gave a little jump when he touched her shoulder. "Gah!" She circled around. "Spike! Hi..."

"'Lo, love. Whatcha got there?"

"Oh, me?" She nervously babbled, eyes still on his face. "Nothing- -just, you know, _papers_..."

"Fantastic," he deadpanned. He backed off to give her some personal space, and returned to his old habit of admiring equipment on a nearby desk. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, and he tried to sound unassuming when, once she returned to her work, he asked, "You... wanna catch a drink tonight?"

"Oh? Oh, that's very..." Fred privately thought along the lines of 'inappropriate' and 'out of the blue,' but she decided to take the sudden request as a compliment and let him down easy. "Nice of you to offer, but- -I think this going to take up my evening." She apologetically pointed to her report.

Spike scoffed. "Doing what _Angel_ tells you? That'll get you nowhere. He's allergic to people enjoying themselves."

Spike had meant it to sound funny and scathing, but there was a subtle sourness to his voice. Fred eyed him sympathetically as he nervously fiddled with a flask. "...Are you okay?"

"Huh?" Spike glanced back at her, genuinely confused by the question. He hastily stole a glance down at himself in self-examination. "Yeah, peachy. Why?"

"You seemed a little more upset than usual. You know..." She held a clipboard tight against her chest and drummed her fingers against it. "Angel, not giving you anything to do..."

Spike shrugged off her concern. He was not about to complain about not having work to do. "Ah, don't care about that. So what? So he's freezing me out- -"

"He's not freezing you out," she immediately leaped to contradict. "He's just not used to you being... Available. I mean, first you were incorporeal, and then you were off on your own for a while. He just has to figure out what to do with you."

"Eh." Spike waved dismissively behind him. "Doubt he has any real plan. Probably only keeps me around 'cause I'm eye-candy."

Fred giggled, smiled, and sheepishly pushing up the rims of her glasses against her nose. She struck a thought that was supposed to sound reassuring. "If you think about it, the cases we've had lately have been a little, well, _legal_. And you're not a lawyer, I never got the sense you knew much about science, and as for _research_- -"

"Right, I get it. Not a good fit for the geek squad."

"You just have to be a little patient. I'm sure we'll land a case sometime where you'll be able to do..." She hesitated on how to put it. "Your _thing_."  
>Spike acted like he had dropped out of the conversation, staring blankly at a far-off wall and clicking the inside of his cheek.<p>

"I could talk to him..."

Spike stiffened and turned, slightly aghast at her suggestion. "_No_. This thing, the me-not-working thing? Gonna stick to that. Anyway. 'Ta, love. See you on Monday."

"Monday?" Fred's mind flickered with realization. She turned for the door and tried to call after him. "Spike? Spike, the firm is open tomorrow- -"

He was already gone.

* * *

><p>It was Friday night, and Spike knew he was being followed.<p>

The club was thick with the smell of sex and alcohol, dark enough to disorient most humans and loud enough to drown out most conversation. Yet Spike, who had come alone for some drinking, flirting, and whatever else the night might lead to, could sense from the very curb outside that someone was paying too much attention to him. He didn't look across his shoulder to confirm his intuition; he thought, if nothing else, he could shake the feeling off once he mingled in the dark between numerous tipsy bodies.

Then he made a decision that was, by every measure, unwise. He started to drink- -heavily.

With enough alcohol stirring in his stomach and numbing his otherwise keen senses, the presence, which he was certain was still there, became less grating to him, less potentially threatening. It nearly felt charming, curious, maybe even a little flattering that someone was taking the time to trail him.

So he sat at his table, happily buzzed, almost not noticing the flashes of white light. Admittedly, it was hard to distinguish them from the other colorful flashes of club strobes, but these grew in intensity and volume as time went on until, at last, the bartender sniped aloud in his direction, "Put that away."

Spike, by then a little too inebriated to know better, at first thought the bartender was talking to him. He looked himself over, trying to figure out what could possibly be construed as 'out,' but another flash flooded him with light and he heard a click. He swung his head around and found, to his shock, the culprit standing merely feet away from him.

It was a young woman, from the looks of it, college age; in the dark he couldn't be sure, but she appeared to be Hispanic, with thick dark hair bunched around her shoulders and flirtatious clothing emphasizing her ample features. And in her hands, a camera, professional issue.

When she realized he saw her, she momentarily panicked, dropped the camera down, and pretended not to be looking in his direction. The act was clumsy enough for even a tipsy vampire to notice. He stood to his feet, briefly fought off a rush of alcohol to the head, and pursued her.

Her attempt at shuffling away failed-he caught up with her effortlessly. "Watch the polaroids, love," he growled, grabbing her arm. "I'm a bit camera shy."  
>She winced but coyly smiled at him. She was even cuter close-up, and her eyes glistened with a sudden tease. "I wouldn't have guessed from the look of you."<p>

"What's with the pictures?" he asked, turning away as he did so.

"Sorry-wow." Still smiling, she shook her head and looked down at her camera in embarrassment. She followed him and spoke as they walked. "I'm being a total creeper." The girl pushed her shoulders together to appear smaller than she was; she draped the camera back at her neck and smoothly put out her hand in a manner that seemed choreographed or, at the very least, practiced. "My name's Mira. I'm a photography student at the U."

Spike glanced at her from the corner of his eye, noting her outstretched hand and puzzling over how to respond. Typically, he didn't shake a lot of hands when meeting women at bars-it was a business-like move, not a flirtatious one. He chose to ignore it. He moved back to the counter and took his seat, and since the girl remained right behind him, he decided to play along. "Am I a class project?"

"I'm doing a series on attractive men sitting alone in bars."

"I'm a little drunk, but I'm not that drunk. Run along, girly."

"You ever think of doing modeling?"

Spike made an incredulous expression. He had used that pick-up line on women, but this was the first time he ever had it turned on him. _So the hunter becomes the hunted. _"Uh, no, can't say I have."

She took a seat next to him without asking permission and peered at him like he was a piece of art. She held up her hands, framed his face with her fingers. "You have the jawline for it."

He sensed this was going to continue for a while, so he tapped the counter and asked for an additional beer. She swiftly ordered a margarita and pounced back onto his features with her searching eyes.

"The scar above your eye, well, that's asymmetry, but it makes your face more interesting, hah? Like you have a story to tell."

She would probably run screaming if he told the story behind said scar. He smirked at that thought.

"But it takes more than a nice body," she prattled on. "It takes something... Extra. Some spark. Zing. I think you have it. It's written in your eyes. You've got _soul,_ chico."

Spike couldn't hold it in; he chuckled. "Don't I know it."

"Wait! Stop! Hold it right there!" she yelped suddenly, pulling up the camera and taking a picture right up in his face. He blinked, startled by the assault-by-camera. "Sorry, the lighting was perfect. Couldn't resist. What's your name, bebe?"

Spike didn't like being prodded in this manner, and he especially didn't like being thrown off. He actually had to collect his thoughts before he could properly answer,

"Name's Spike."

Her margarita arrived and she sipped at it gingerly, ignoring the bartender's repeated warning to stop taking photographs. "'Spike'? That your stripper name?"

"Actually my secret identity."

"That is un-be-lievably sexy. Do you want to go back to my place for a photo shoot?"

Spike, in the midst of swigging his beer, paused. Well, that was a quick swerve. Even girls desperate for him didn't usually move this ruthlessly. He smirked. So she was a shutterbug. What did he care? She was healthily aggressive, and definitely not hard on the eyes. He trailed his vision down her body and mumbled, "I guess I could find the time."

She picked up the camera again. "Obviously, when we get to my place, you're going to have to take off all your clothes."

"Obviously," he concurred.

The camera captured another shot of him glancing back at her in amusement. "We'll have to very, very careful though, bebe."

"Yeah?"

"I have a boyfriend." She grinned at his surprise and leaned in, whispering coyly, "He's always- -ah- -_muy_ jealous."

Drunk and wistfully open to anything that involved getting naked with her, he burbled, "Guess we'll have to be real crafty then."

Mira took yet another photograph of his face and he placed his hand over the lens with a degree of irritation.

"That's enough, love."

Yet the girl, undaunted, seemed only pleased as they stood to their feet and traipsed clumsily for the parking lot. "Tonight's gonna rock."

_Click_.

The car opened and they crawled inside like hermits into a cave, with a faint and uncompromising promise that they would never leave. As they sat side-by-side, he found that she still held the camera in hand, and instead of locking lips, she shoved it in his face, and he spent several moments staring deep into the camera lens reflecting all but himself, absorbing all light, all consciousness.

* * *

><p>That Saturday morning, Angel had fooled himself into thinking the day would be normal. Harmony brought his mug of blood warm, the phone was quiet, and not even the faintest headache haunted him. If he were the type, he might have even kicked up his heels and leaned back in his chair.<p>

_Oh, hell_, he suddenly thought, _why not?_ He was the CEO, after all. Who would complain?  
>But just as he pushed back from the desk to prepare for the cliche, his office door opened and right through it rolled a trolley with an enormous bouquet balanced precariously on top.<p>

Once it reached his desk, the imposing bouquet of flowers stood, from the height of the trolley, above his head. He blinked a few times and looked to the messenger who had wheeled it in. "Are we having a party?"

"No, sir," the mousy, female messenger replied, sweetly smiling to him. "These arrived for you."

Angel wasn't sure how to respond to this news. He stood to his feet, circled around the desk, and cautiously approached it, even touching a finger timidly against a leaf, as if testing for a trap. "From who?"

"The note's on this side." The messenger turned it around to reveal a white envelope with lacy handwriting tucked in the blossoms. It read, simply, _Angel_.

"Uh, thanks," he said, nodding the messenger away and plucking up the letter between his fingers. As he opened it, he had to wrack his brain to remember if he done anything lately to merit an elaborate gift like this. It was odd, but not quite odd enough to make him cause him to do much more than wonder.

Inside was a simple note-card with delicate, intimate handwriting.

_Thanks for the gift._

Now he was very confused.

"Wow!" Fred and Gunn slipped into his office and both gawked at the display; Fred, tickled with delight, skipped over before Angel had a chance to explain. "These are gorgeous!"

Gunn stood aloof but whistled to show he was still impressed. "Looks like somebody got lucky."

Angel sheepishly backed away from the bouquet, hiding his embarrassment at receiving something so lavish and obvious to anyone passing by.

"Are these for Nina?" Fred asked.

He realized what she was implying and shook his head, explaining dismissively, "Actually, they're for me."

"Nina sent _you_ flowers?"

To be honest, Angel hadn't thought of that possibility- -he hadn't even spoken to her in a week or so. He couldn't remember giving her a gift, but perhaps the flowers had been delayed somehow. "Er, no. Maybe." When they appeared confused, he confessed, "They didn't have a name attached. Just a thank you note."  
>Gunn wasn't alarmed by the news; he adjusted his tie and shrugged. "It was probably one of our clients."<p>

"One of our evil, scum-of-the-earth clients sent me flowers?"

"Evil, sure, but some of them have manners."

"Speaking of well-mannered scum," Angel mused aloud, taking a seat behind his desk before realizing that the flowers were effectively blocking him off, forcing him to stand again, "how are Radoslav's dealings?"

"Embargo's up and ready." Gunn proudly tapped the folder in his hand. "We've also started adding pressure on various businesses aligned with his trade. He's gonna feel the squeeze soon."

"Has he... responded?" Angel asked hopefully.

The two stared at him in some boggled confusion, but Gunn wistfully answered, "His flunkies have called me with threats in broken English. He hasn't contacted you?"  
>Fred pinched the end of a flower petal and snickered before disclosing her amusing thought. "Maybe <em>he<em> sent you the flowers."

"Let's just hope it means he's out of our hair," Angel sighed unconvincingly. He doubted it would be that simple, but one could dream.

"I'll keep you posted," Gunn said. "I'll be in my office." With nothing else to report, he gave Fred a nod and exited.

Fred remained, twirling a circlet of hair about her finger. "So, I did that dissection work for you, Angel," she reminded him. "They're definitely Talgroth eggs. Looks like the whole block is likely infested."

"Oh, good," Angel mumbled, a bit too positively to have been listening the entire time. He shuffled papers and said flippantly, "Get Spike on it."

Fred made an uncertain noise.

"What?"

"Spike isn't coming in today," Fred uneasily admitted.

"Why?"

"Because it's Saturday."

"We always work on Saturdays."

"He knows that. I think he's in willful denial about it, though."

He made a few choice curses under his breath before resigning to this news. "Well," he sighed, "I guess-get some of the squad. They'll have to do."

When Fred left and he was alone again, he sat at his desk. He slapped down the envelope but swiveled the white note-card in his hand, looking to its front and back.

Other than the strange note of gratitude, there was not a speck to imply who had written it. The handwriting was simple and nondescript. He thumbed it open wider, wondering if perhaps he had missed something.

Suddenly, he could smell it. Peroxide. He turned up the envelope and out fell a slender blade of white-blonde hair.

A loud obscenity sprang abruptly from his mouth and he crumpled the note in muffled fury. Of course! _Spike._ God, he should have known. The over-dramatic gestures-the flowers and the lock of hair sealed in the note, and the overbearing, flirtatious sarcasm of them both-were Spike's works, his taunting. Angel just didn't know what the taunting was for. Yet.

He pounded a number into the phone. "Gunn, check all our accounts-let me know if anything is missing." Maybe Spike had stolen a car? Weapons? The possibilities were endless.

"_Uh, what's this about?_"

"I think Spike just took off with something, and I want to know what."

Gunn was taken aback. "_Why do you think he did that?_"

"Trust me," Angel said sourly. "I know him."

As he leaned over the phone, the messenger returned with an envelope in hand. "Sir-"

"_What_?"

The messenger was startled by his change in manner, but stammered her explanation. "I-This came with the flowers. I forgot it downstairs."

Evidence. He just about leaped over the desk in over-zealous fervor to discover what, exactly, Spike was up to.

"All right," he snarled, tearing it open and dumping the contents onto his desk. "Let's see what he- -" Everything spilled out in a splash of papery folds. He stared. "- -What the hell?"

Photographs. All photographs of Spike making increasingly odd facial expression in a bar. Angel pushed them about with his fingers, wanting to read some intention, but nothing had a pattern, and it was an odd prank to say the least.

Spike getting up.

Spike walking through a doorway, into a parking lot.

Spike, unconscious and bleeding, held by his hair by a man in a ski mask.

"Meeting in my office," Angel murmured into his phone with a no different tone than if he was making a call about budget cuts. He turned over the last photograph and found another message.

_With love from Radoslav._


	3. Book 1, Chapter 2: The Second Man

Book 1 - Chapter 2: The Second Man

As usual, no one ever told Harmony what was going on. It didn't matter how many times she tried to flag them down every time they rushed past, or however sweetly she entered Angel's office with his mug of blood; no one had the time to oblige her curiosity and determine what, exactly, had thrown them all into a tizzy.

She noticed the first meeting ended with a lot of desperate chatter and a clearly distressed movement. Gunn, expression blank, patting Fred's back as she fought back sobs; Wesley appearing more sober than usual; Angel emerging only to snap at Harmony about something and then slamming the door shut.

Boss was so out of sorts that when Eve showed up- -hadn't she betrayed them, like, twice now? Harmony thought- -and she called Angel to report it, he just barked at her to let the petite woman inside. After that, Harm brought out her two-columned list of "Friends/Enemies" written in curly, purple script. Just as she thought. Eve had moved to the enemies' side.

She scratched her head. Working at Wolfram and Hart sure could be confusing sometimes.

And where was Spike? Though he was late pretty much every day, and probably suffering a hangover of some sort, Harmony expected Spike to be one of the first to be on beck and call in case of emergency.

Oh, well. No time to think about that now, because Angel had informed her flatly to cancel all appointments, and he had, like, a _gajillion_. She started informing the clients as patiently as she could that no, she wasn't sure what the problem was; boss can be pretty fickle, you know? But we'll get back to you in a jiffy, and then, as if some grand author had deliberated the perfectly predictable script, another visitor arrived through the elevator.

* * *

><p>Harmony gave an exceptionally critical look at this new stranger. He was a young man- -in his twenties most likely- -and an anemic, unhealthy looking fellow. His haircut was a mess of black, matted strands with a patch of bleached hair at his bangs-she accepted the hair, though. It was the clothing that got on her nerves. If Angel hadn't repeatedly warned her before about critiquing people's outfits upon coming in, she would have informed him the homeless look wasn't working. He wore not a suit, but jeans with holes, a red windbreaker over a t-shirt that was faded and stained, mismatched socks beneath his sneakers. He looked a person more fit to be draped over a cop car's hood for petty vandalism than stalking through a law firm. And she wasn't even going to try and guess what that smell was.<p>

It was just as well that she didn't say anything about it. She guessed he wasn't eager for fashion advice.

Harmony tired of watching him glance awkwardly about the floor. She cleared her throat. "Can I help you?"

The man jumped, turned in surprise, but at first made no move to reply. For a few moments he stood paralyzed and gawking at her.

"Are you... like, looking for someone?" she attempted.

He twitched, glanced side to side, and finally made his way over to the desk. It was only when his briefcase was lifted up and pinned against his chest that she realized he was carrying one at all; it was a nice one, Italian, and completely mismatched with the rest of him. He was holding it almost protectively, though for what reason, she couldn't guess. He finally took in a breath and asked haltingly, "I w-want to see CEO?"

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, already certain of the answer.

The man blinked. He seemed baffled by the question. "No."

"You need one to see the boss; sorry."

As the stranger began to speak in fuller sentences, the breadth of his accent grew readily apparent. Harmony couldn't pinpoint it, but it was almost certainly European-the creation of some sort of thick, Slavic tongue. "But I have to see him. It is very important."

"That's what they all say," Harmony sang sweetly, and upon realizing he wasn't going away, pulled out a piece of paper. "Okay, here's the number you can call to set up-"

When she tried to hand him the number, he visibly flinched and had to scrabble to keep his hold on the briefcase. He shook his head. "Um. No, I..."

The man was rubbing fingers together and keeping his eyes glued to the floor. Evidently, whoever he was, he hadn't learned how to properly speak to girls.

"I have to. You don't... Understand, can I... Please just talk to him?"

Harmony just stared at him, her neatly arched eyebrow raising above her eye. Then, in an overly polite manner, she assured him, "Just a minute," and grinned falsely, taking a seat to call security.

The visitor nodded with apparent compliance, but his nerves wracked him so badly that he began to gaze about the office again, landing his eyes on Angel's office door- -from behind which a loud ruckus could be heard.

Without warning, he bolted for it.

Harmony covered the receiver with her hand. "Hey- -mister! I wouldn't go in there!"

But the man, either oblivious or incorrigible, did not heed her warning and waltzed right up to the door, reaching for the handle when-

"I don't care what the Partners think of my priorities!"

- _-Slam. Whack._

The young man and his briefcase were sent skidding across the floor. He quite vocally gagged in pain and clutched his nose.

Angel stood dumbfounded a moment in the doorway, still gripping the door handle, the force of the impact shaking the wood. Then he saw his handiwork flailing on the carpet.

"Oh- -oh, god." Angel's anger momentarily disappeared in favor of remorse; without glancing back at Eve, who looked on in amusement, he raced to the man's side, sheepishly stammering, "Sorry- -sorry!- -I should probably, uh, not swing open doors that suddenly- -geez, I didn't even know that door could open that direction- -are you all right?- -" He offered his hand to get the visitor back on his feet.

The man looked up at him, nose oozing with blood, like he had just insulted his intelligence. He accepted Angel's hand and hobbled upwards. "I'm f-fine."

"Harm, call medical, will you?"

Harmony shook her head at him, her ear still at the receiver. "Um, Angel-"

"Here- -better sit down." Angel noticed the man teetering from faintness and swiftly led him to a hallway chair. "Harm- -oh, you're on it."

"Angel, I'm on with security."

"Security?" The vampire CEO gave her a puzzled look. "What's wrong?"

She rolled her eyes and pointed at his unwitting victim.

Angel turned back over his shoulder and looked the man up and down. It was only then that he realized the man was a complete stranger to him and, by his dress and mannerisms, had no place whatsoever in a law firm. "Who is this?"

Harmony answered flatly, "Don't know. That's why I'm calling."

The flustered, bleeding man muttered, vexed at being referred to as if he wasn't there, and tried to stand again, but a headache forced him into his seat. Angel decided he might as well turn to the source. "Who the hell are you?" he asked, not as much angrily as he did in surprise.

They all stared; the man dabbed blood from his lip and winced. "I- -have come to speak to the CEO."

"That's me. Can I help you?"

"I, er," he stammered, shaking the briefcase demonstratively, "have business offer?"

Angel turned to check on Harmony's progress on the phone, but she lounged back in her chair, tapping a pencil and awaiting instructions. He couldn't think of a worse time for a surprise client. He started over to the desk, mumbling to Harmony to forget the security call. "Call off the dogs, Harm... Where are those files I asked for?" Harmony, on cue, placed down the phone and handed them over. As he skimmed through the pages, he began to apologetically explain to the man, "Look, we're kind of busy right now, you'll have to- -set up an appointment- Harm, I asked for all his background information, what's this?"

"That's it," she told him.

"This," he said, pinching the thin manilla folder. "This is it?"

The man, now completely ignored, attempted a timid, "Excuse me."

"I was told there was an expanded file!"

"He wasn't a regular, apparently. That's as expanded as it gets. Sorry, boss."

"..._Excuse me_."

With the man waving his hands and Eve giving Angel a look, Angel felt unusually pressured. He huffed and mentally closed himself in. He didn't have time for this, he had to...

His fingers grappled for the phone, but Eve nabbed it first, dangling it in her hand with challenge in her eyes. "That's a client you're ignoring, sweetie," Eve intoned, speaking slowly and deliberately like he must have forgotten basic vocabulary. "_An individual willing to pay money in exchange for a legal service_. You're the CEO of a law firm, remember?"

"When I don't have a _kidnapping_ on my hands, I'll be happy to do business!" he snapped, wresting the phone from her.

Harmony, who had up until this moment occupied the space blankly and void of any interest, suddenly looked worried. "Kidnapping? Who got kidnapped?"

A thud hit Angel's chest, a phantom pain of a heartbeat. Workers slowed down to eavesdrop, and he reached the falsetto he always hit when lying profusely. "No one." He slammed down the phone, realized the absurdity of what he just said. "Er- -a client."

Harmony accepted the fib, but crinkled her mouth. "Well, Spike better get off his butt and get over here if he wants to help. It's so typical of him. All he does is complain there isn't enough action, and the moment action happens-poof! Gone."

Angel chewed his bottom lip uncharacteristically, gawking at her with a tortured look.

"What?"

"Okay, alright, okay..." At this point, Angel appeared to be chanting in a fruitless effort to calm himself. "We're fine. Everything's... Just fine." He noticed Eve cocking an eyebrow at him and furiously gestured for her dismissal. "You go. Now."

So Eve sashayed away without another word, and he fixed his eyes back on Harmony.

He spoke timidly at first. "H-hey, Harm."

She looked up expectantly.

"Um... You're right," Angel began, faking an encouraging smile. "And you know what? I think you're the perfect person to... Do something about it." He searched his coat for some sort of writing utensil, but found nothing; he arched his arm over the desk and blatantly nabbed a pen and paper. "So I'd like you to go to his apartment and see if he's there."

Harmony, genuinely surprised by Angel's concern, wondered, "...What if he's not?"

"Do you have a key?"

"Ugh." She made a repulsed face. "We're not together, Angel. We just have sex, and sometimes we try to kill each other."

Not listening but trying to act intent, Angel mumbled, "Uh-huh. Great." He lifted his head to give grave instructions. "Then break in and let me know what you find."

Harmony was not sure how to respond to such a request, but she warmed up to it, gingerly getting to her feet. "You're the boss," she sighed.

* * *

><p>That September morning remained fresh and flushed with warmth despite the chaos going on indoors. The Los Angeles trees glowed a lively green, the sidewalks baked from vestigial summer, and on the streets, businessmen kept up their march, full of sweat, cell phone chatter, notes from disbanded meetings. All this could be witnessed from the windows of Angel's office, and for a time, he could not help but pause to absorb the sway down below, the scatter of ant-like creatures amassing and moving about the earth. He tried, and failed, to not allow his mind to trace the existential. But the ants had it.<p>

And now, once alone- -or at least, what Angel thought qualified as 'alone' when standing in the law firm's busiest floors- -he took a moment to think things over.

It had only been a few hours since the revelation, the realization that something had gone completely wrong. He barely had time to think on it, only holding enough mental energy to tell others what to do. Now, with no one to order around, he felt dizzy, lost. Gunn had left to gather information. Wesley had cloistered back in his office, incapable of giving much support. Fred was...

Angel held out his hand in the late summer light, allowing the heat to simmer into the pores of his skin. Wesley had asked him how he felt, and he had then answered, "It's complicated." Still was. It wasn't as if he was surprised. Spike always seemed to get himself into scrapes.

But...

* * *

><p>Angel's brooding was suddenly interrupted by a brisk rapping on his office door.<p>

"Yes?"

He honestly expected Gunn, but when he turned, he found, to his surprise, an employee from downstairs. He knew who it was- -he recognized the fidgety, tightly-wound suit from a case in the previous week- -but couldn't quite remember the name. It was something vaguely Jewish sounding, wasn't it? Horowitz? Herschel?

"Oh." Angel hastily lifted himself from the office chair. "Hello, H- - Ha- -"

"It's Handel," the man informed him, noticeably irritated.

Okay, maybe not Jewish. Nonetheless, Angel observed that Handel, whatever department he hailed from, was clearly stressed- -tie askew, top buttons of his shirt undone. "Is there, um..."

"I'm sorry to barge in on you," Handel said, though he didn't sound very sorry, "but I've been trying to call your office for the last forty-five minutes."

This was puzzling news indeed. Angel glanced back at his phone, wondering briefly if technology was to blame, before babbling, "Really? I didn't hear anything..."

"Maybe if your secretary didn't sit on the line..."

Angel bolted to his feet.

* * *

><p>He hurried out to the reception desk, fully expecting Harmony to be back in her post and rearranging her unicorn figurines.<p>

Instead, it was _him_.

The client Angel had pushed out of the office sat without any shame in his secretary's seat, leaned back in the chair and muttering short and sporadic streams of Russian into the telephone.

Angel, surprisingly calm, turned to dismiss the employee- -_sorry, something just came up_- -and stomped over to the desk. He wrenched the phone from the man's hand and slammed it down.

The young man accordingly went into a snit. "'Ey!" He scrabbled to right himself. "Rude!"

"I remember telling you to leave."

In a gesture that came across as exceptionally bold in the presence of the older and much larger vampire, the man crossed his arms and declared, "I'm not going until I get services."

Had the entire world gone crazy? Had _Angel_ gone crazy? He usually struggled to keep clients from storming out in a huff and swearing blood vengeance, but this one wouldn't leave.

Angel turned and, in his frustration, freely spoke to himself.

"_I can't do this right now_."

The elevator rang out. He looked up to see Gunn quickly chatting with Wesley before the open doors.

Angel saw his exit. "Oh thank god."

Either blissfully ignorant or willfully so, he started to move to join the two as if the stranger were no longer there. Perhaps if he ignored the person, him and all the other nagging forces would vanish from view. He could have a clear sight of what was before him. No phone calls, no extraneous visitors, no clients.

Alas, no such luck. The moment he began to walk away, the man stood to his feet.

"W-what kind of business do you run, hah? You just- -" The man realized Angel was walking too far ahead to reasonably hear him. He huffed and started to jog alongside. "- -Walk away as I'm talking to- -"

"Gunn! What have you got?"

Both Gunn and Wesley turned their attention to the approaching vampire and the strange man hobbling to keep up with him. Gunn started uncertainly, "Not much..."

"Who's this?" Wesley asked.

Angel acted like he had forgotten the other presence; he checked over his shoulder, sighed, then brightened with the realization that he could pawn off the new responsibility. "Who, this guy? Nobody- -just a- -client- -hey, Wes," Angel crooned, pulling him aside with a friendly pat on the shoulder. His voice was suspiciously sweet. "Are you busy...?"

Wesley glanced at Gunn, who, he could tell, carried the same trepidation. "Well, I thought I would- -"

"Great!" Angel spoke as if glossing over something unimportant. "Then could you find out what this- -guy wants? Gunn, my office."

So as Angel and Gunn retreated back across the floor and into Angel's abode, Wesley was left a bit befuddled and with a frustrated man gazing back at him. Wesley cleared his throat and let the Englishman in him muddle through; he flapped a folder in his hands nervously. "Ahem. Well. Step into my office, I suppose..."

* * *

><p>The other man's discomfort was palpable. He shuffled, folded his legs one direction, unfolded them, folded them in another; he chose not to make eye contact, instead admiring various tomes and papers littering the office. His front teeth grated against his bottom lip, sawing through chapped skin and nervously chattering at the back of his jaw. Wesley took a fleeting moment to actually look him in the face and judge his looks. He had a thin, weak-looking face and pronounced nose, and by the reflection in his eyes, he appeared drowsy, almost catatonic. His eyes were so dark and full that, at the right angle, one couldn't see any whites in them, like a china doll's, and in the dim office light, he squinted, one eyelid occasionally twitching from what could easily be attributed to nerves. The bags under his eyes further supported the notion that the man was under a good deal of stress. But overall, he had mild looks, mild attributes. Someone of a plain variety who would be effortlessly overlooked on the street.<p>

Wesley asked him if he wanted to remove his jacket, but the man shook his head. The red windbreaker thus remained wrapped and sweltering over his torso, crinkling whenever he moved.

As Wesley took a seat and tried not to appear greatly distracted, the man didn't drop his air of impatience. Outside the door, employees still bustled and scurried, and the visitor's eyes darted impersonally after the moving bodies. "You are busy with something?" he asked, obviously wanting to determine if the lackluster service he had received was personal and not circumstantial.

"...Yes," Wesley replied reassuringly, "we are involved in a case."

"Must be big fucking deal," the man said crankily, "because I've been here for over an hour- -"

"- -And we do apologize, sir. But we're preoccupied, and walk-ins aren't generally accepted at all." Wesley decided it would be best to calm the man down with some small-talk, so he proffered, "So, from your accent, I'd guess you're from Russia?"

Taken aback, the man conceded, "- -Yes."

"Did you by any chance happen to learn English while in Britain?"

The question caught the man completely off-guard. He instinctively touched his throat, as if he knew what gave him away.

"I only noticed your English has a bit of a British flavor," Wesley explained.

"I- -Yes." The admission sounded reluctant. "I lived there two years. While ago. You can tell all that from what I say?"

"It's not too difficult. What were you doing there?"

The man looked like he was about to answer, but he blinked hard, shaking off the misdirection. "I, really, I really need to talk to CEO- -"

"...Don't we all."

Piper didn't understand the underlying coyness to Wesley's tone.

"Well, in the meanwhile, I suppose a proper introduction of some sort is in order. What's your name?"

"Piper."

"- -And your full name?"

The man was unmoved. "I go by Piper."

Something in Piper's voice hinted to Wesley that the pseudonym would be all he would get for the time being. "All right... 'Piper.'" He stood to produce his hand. "Wesley Wyndham-Pryce."

But Wesley was left with his hand mid-air while the disgruntled man shifted impatiently in his sight. He made no move to shake Wesley's hand or even glance at it. "I have business offer."

"So I gathered," Wesley answered good-naturedly, concealing his embarrassment. He withdrew his hand and took his seat again.

"You have to tell the CEO man," Piper insisted, like he was lecturing a child. "It is very important. I tell you, you tell him."

"Yes, I suppose that'll do. What exactly- -"

The briefcase slammed atop his desk, knocking several items to the floor. Piper leaned over and, before Wesley could insist his moving it from his desk, opened the case.

Inside, a neatly laid layer of crisp bills practically shimmered in the low office light.

"Two-hundred thousand dollars," Piper announced, oblivious to Wesley's continued gaping. "Is this enough to have Radoslav Kovec killed?"

* * *

><p>"Like I said, I didn't get much. I tracked down the- -dude, will you stop pacing? I'm getting dizzy just watching you."<p>

"Huh?" Angel paused to look down at his feet as if they had been acting on their own. From the moment they entered his office, he hadn't been able to sit down; he made a few attempts before shying from his seat, as if sitting down might delay or otherwise unhinge their investigation. But now, despite his fidgeting hands, his twitching feet, and his vaguely distracted look, he settled awkwardly against the wall. He also crossed his arms against his chest, but the show of resolve wasn't completely effective- -his arms still shook in their binds.

"Anyway," Gunn went on. "I tracked down the bar- -I knew I recognized it. It's one of his usual places. Bartender there remembers him talking to a Hispanic girl. There was some heavy flirting going on, and then they left together."

Angel gave Gunn a prying stare. "No one knows who this girl was?"

"Wasn't a regular, according to the people I spoke with."

"Which... Doesn't help us at all." He gravely gazed into the space between his feet. "And the florist?"

"Florist says the delivery was paid with cash- -Hispanic female, sounded like one in the same. They had her fill out a form, but the info she gave them was bogus. I tried to ask for security footage, but all I got from either of them was a picture of a female-Hispanic-shaped blob."

The silence that followed unnerved them. Angel, too aware of his pacing to return to it, took to tapping his foot and staring at a tower across the street. He had never noticed the odd shape of their windows, and- -

Gunn interrupted his feeble attempt at self-distraction. "Did you get the psychics...?"

"Lorne talked to a few," Angel admitted. "But all they got was 'dark' and 'pain' and more 'dark.'"

Gunn caustically rolled his eyes. "Tell you he was 'near a body of water,' too?"

Angel finally took a seat in his chair, wheeling it closer to the glass, hands fidgeting restlessly. He squinted and spoke mostly to himself. "Sometimes I wonder about that department."

"You know, we're going to need some kind of strategy."

"Yeah, I... I just don't want to cause a huge fuss. Not right away."

Gunn didn't comment on how strangely this statement stood out. "What have you done so far?"

"Looked for a file on Radoslav- -no luck there. And... Harm's going to Spike's apartment," Angel volunteered.

"You've got Harmony out doing field work? That's... Desperate, man." Gunn withheld a laugh to ask somewhat sympathetically, "How'd she take it?"

"Oh, er," Angel uttered, squirming guiltily, "I didn't really... Tell her..."

"Angel, she's an evil blood-sucking fiend, and not that bright to boot. I think she'll be able to handle it."

"I'm sorry," he vexed. He stood to his feet and, though feeling a bit cowardly doing so, veered for another drink. "I don't like being around depressed women."  
>From the very minute Angel had coldly announced the situation to them, they had all spent varied amounts of time watching, speculating, attempting to read his emotions. Like they were trying to make sense of him, of his stoicism.<p>

He knew they whispered to each other, things like,_ we know he isn't fond of him_, and,_ he doesn't seem too upset_.

So it didn't surprise Angel when Gunn frowned and asked, "Are you... Worried?"

"No, it's just..." Angel wrung his hands. "I was careless. And if it happened to Spike, then none of you are safe."

With that thought finished, Wesley chose the perfect time to open the door wearing a deeply puzzled expression.

"Wes," Gunn acknowledged.

The Englishmen acted like he had forgotten where he was. He blinked and sheepishly emitted an, "Oh, hello." He washed his glasses.

They both knew what that meant; Gunn followed up. "What is it?"

"I just had an... Enlightening conversation with the young man now sitting in my office."

"Oh, right. That guy." Angel abruptly lost interest and returned to fruitlessly pawing through the single page of information he had. "What'd he want?"

"Incidentally, Radoslav."

This, at last, caught their attention. They gaped, wordless at first. Wesley opted not to waste their time.

"The poor man has mistaken us for hit-men; he brought two-hundred thousand dollars in the hopes of persuading us to assassinate one Radoslav Kovec."

"Kovec? Radoslav's last name?" Angel boggled at the file on his desk. "_We_ don't have his last name."

"Not suspicious at all," Gunn cut in sarcastically. "So, who is this guy?"

"He gave a pseudonym."

"Who's he with?"

"He wouldn't say."

"Whoever he is, we should tell him to save his money," Gunn snorted, straightening his tie. "We'll probably end up killing the dude pro bono anyway."  
>Angel didn't share Gunn's enthusiasm. "It sounds like a trap."<p>

"It probably is," Wesley said. "But he claims to have information about Radoslav- -information that could be crucial to finding him. I think we'd be wrong not to hear him out."

It did not take too many glances between them before Angel relented and volunteered himself.

* * *

><p>Angel probably deserved to eat some crow at this point, but no way in hell was he going to. It didn't matter how relevant the information happened to be; he refused to be happy in order fashion or form.<p>

Piper was sitting in Wesley's office as patiently as one could expect- -that is to say, without an ounce of patience at all. By the time Angel reached the room, the younger man had started to delve, without permission, into Wesley's various tomes. Whether he understood any of the content, Angel didn't pretend to know.

He cleared his throat.

Piper looked up and betrayed immediately that he would not be graceful in his victory. "Finally take an interest?" he asked grouchily.

"As a matter of fact."

"Good." The man shifted away from Wesley's desk to clasp his briefcase and shake it demonstrably. "Money is universal language, yeah?"

Though slightly offended at the assumption their minds had changed due to an uptick in price, Angel tried to keep it professional. "Sure. Anyway, we can get situated in my office, if you prefer."

"Yah, yah, that's good." He stood to his feet, suitcase proudly in hand, and gave Angel a stare one usually reserved for a butler. "Can I get coffee?"

Angel painfully forced a smile.

* * *

><p>Piper- -as he soon named himself, just about a guaranteed false identity- -considerably perked up with the inclusion of a cup of black coffee. Thinking, perhaps, that he finally had an upper hand in this facility, he allowed himself a lift of mood and chatty behavior. He wouldn't sit no matter how many times Angel invited him to. Too wired. His sneakers bounced on the thin carpeted floor, and his fingers tapped the china mug in his grip. Caffeine had converted him completely.<p>

But Angel countered every pleasantry with insistence that they remain on topic. "You wanted to talk about Radoslav."

"Yes, yes." Piper ambled toward the plate glass, staring boldly down at the city below. "I want you to kill him, yes?"

A little more upfront than most, Angel had to admit. He frowned and unfolded his hands. "Um... Okay? Any particular reason why?"

"What's that?"

"Why do you want him dead?"

Piper scoffed. "You ask this of all people? Is this business practice of yours?"

"Frankly, I'm curious," Angel deadpanned.

"Why are you so curious?"

"Because we're working on a case right now, and it so happens that your case and ours are related." Angel watched Piper's face to gauge a reaction, hoping to find evidence of conspiracy.

But Piper looked disbelieving at first. "What?" He huffed and, at last, took a seat in the opposite chair. "What do you mean?"

"We, er, have a bit of a crisis with him already... We're trying to locate him."

Piper had no response. He thoughtfully sighed and continued to slurp his brew.

"So, obviously, any information you have..."

"Tell you what I know," Piper volunteered overzealously. He sat upright, cleared his throat, and took on an air of perhaps too much importance. "His name is Radoslav Kovec; he's a Serb from Bosnia. In Serbian mafia- -drug cartel and such."

"Do you know where he lives? Where his main workplace might be?"

The question elicited a confused glare. "Wouldn't be here if I knew that."

"...Right."

Piper, deep in contemplation, held his face over his coffee, as if peering into it for guidance. He asked cautiously, "What is it that happen? Your business with Radoslav."

"He... Well, we had made contact finally, got him in the office, and then..."

Piper leaned in, evidently rapt.

"He kind of..." Angel failed to come up with a gentle euphemism. "Took someone."

"Kidnap?" Piper asked, sounding incredulous.

"That's why we're trying to track him down."

For some reason, the confession made Piper more suspicious than understanding. "Radoslav has kidnapped employee?"

"Not exactly an employee- -more of an outside contractor- -" Angel started to say, then realized the semantics weren't important.

"Are you sure?"

"What?"

"It just... Doesn't seem his, er, sort of thing."

"He sent a bouquet with his name on it, so yeah, I think it's him. How many people in this city have the guts to abduct a vampire?"

"...A vampire?"

Angel froze. The slip of the tongue had come before he even considered it- _-crap_!

But strangely enough, Piper had no qualms about this information. In fact, he responded quite calmly; he considered the information a moment, and then it seemed to

click. "Oh."

"'_Oh_'?" Angel repeated shrilly. He nearly leaped out of his chair for tension. "What do you mean, 'oh'?"

"That makes more sense." As Angel stared at him quizzically, he slowly finished his drink. "Radoslav sells those."


	4. Book 1, Chapter 3: Laissez Faire

(A/N: Quick thanks to those who have reviewed/added alerts for this story. I have a longstanding bad habit of taking a very long time updating anything, as I abhor writing anything in order. In terms of the entire story-three books total- -I have roughly 75% of it done, but I have many gaps and changes to make before it's polished enough to post. Anyway, that's just to give you the sense of my update scheme. If you ever want to drop me a line, please do so- -I love talking with readers. Enjoy!)

**Book 1 - Chapter 3: Laissez-Faire**

Now comfortably seated at the conference table, Piper shuffled copies of the incriminating photographs under close supervision. He had scanned indulgently over the images, scratching his chin on occasion to give the impression that he was thinking something deep, but over time, it became apparent that the pictures were not illuminating anything for him. He found one in particular, though, and had since fixated his attention on it- -a fact that worried the two attendants slightly, as it was one of the more gory photographs in the collection.

And so he sat very quietly, very contemplatively, staring at a picture of Spike's bloodied face, and gnawed the edges of his fingernails, producing an obnoxious noise not unlike popping, cracking bone.

For the time being, only Wesley and Angel tended to him, hoping to perhaps draw out some more morsels of information, but neither carried any delusions. The Englishman flicked his fingers, seated adjacent to the stranger, and Angel, feeling increasingly fretful, presided at the head of the table. Neither spoke.

At last, Piper decided to break the silence. He brought his fingers out of his mouth and pointed to the image. "This it, then?"

Wesley gave Angel a furtive glance before allowing, "Yes, that's him."

"Hmm."

Not accepting this as his only response, Wesley decided to press. "Now... Er, Mr. Piper, how much do you know about this market?"

"Eh. A little." Piper picked up one photograph, tilted it, frowned. "'S nice-looking."

Angel boggled. "What?"

"Just saying. Good-looking. Make mint on that."

The implication of this whimsical aside nearly sent the vampire flying into a tantrum. He chomped on his lower lip and snapped, "_Excuse me_?"

"- -Uh." Wesley decided he'd better interrupt before anything got out of hand; he cleared his throat and scooted forward. "...But do you know where he operates his business? What people are involved?"

Eyes still on Angel, Piper shrugged. "Dunno." He clicked his teeth and eventually folded his arms, like he was seeing something in Angel's cold glare. "You're really sensitive about this."

"He's a friend," Wesley replied simply.

"...It's just a vampire."

"_His_ name is Spike," Angel at last interrupted. "_Stuff_ the attitude."

Piper then came to the conclusion that there were emotions at play he couldn't have predicted. He sunk into a silence- -whether in true shame or some imitation of it, they didn't know- -and began anew. "All I know is he sells for parts."

"Parts?" Wesley echoed.

"Yeah, like, lungs. Kidneys."

Wesley immediately looked to Angel, thinking he would have some emotional response. But the vampire tapped his digit finger atop the table, pondered something, swiveled in his chair. Just when Wesley was about to speak, Angel got up and, without a word, returned to his office.

"Er- -" Wesley swung his head back, watching him leave with great puzzlement. He apologized to Piper as hastily as he could. "- -Well, that's very- -would you excuse us for a moment?"

* * *

><p>Wesley followed Angel slowly, approaching from behind as the vampire hunched over his desk, apparently seeking something to do. He stood and waited for a few moments, thinking hard to himself on how to speak to him. He had known Angel for years, fought for life and limb beside him, and had been, ultimately, one of his closest confidantes. But Wesley had always sensed great reserve when their conversations veered into the topic of Spike. Even when Angel had received news of Spike's (temporary) death, no amount of Wesley's querying could get him to confess a single emotion or thought. He was a part of Angel's history- -a part deeply entwined with Angelus- -so it stood to reason that he had never been especially chatty on the subject.<p>

But with Spike's return and now this, Angel hadn't maintained his cool exterior.

"Angel?"

Angel harrumphed and flopped down into his chair, glancing over paperwork as if he hadn't heard Wesley at all.

Wesley folded his arms. "Are you all right?"

"Hmm?" Angel glanced innocently over his papers. He took to over-dramatically shuffling them about, pretending to be engrossed in their contents. "Yeah- -fine. I'm fine. I'm just really behind, and I should get some of this done..."

"You don't think you should be involved?"

"I'm involved," Angel said. "Plenty involved. But it looked like you had a handle on things, and I have other irons in the fire."

It was a noble but unconvincing explanation of his sudden retreat. Wesley tried to think of a way to kindly prod the real problem into view.

"Go ahead," Angel quickly dismissed, waving him to return to his post. "Maybe you'll get something else out of him."

But they had already grilled Piper for some time on pertinent details- -the party responsible for offering the hit, the source of the money, any information on Radoslav's whereabouts- -and the man refused any attempt to extract information, pleading both ignorance and irrelevance. Wesley therefore had reason to be skeptical. "I wouldn't depend on it."

Angel didn't appear to have any response to this.

Wesley, about to retreat, was suddenly overcome by a nagging thought which he briefly fought against. Though he clearly still debated whether he ought to bring it up, he ultimately decided to come out with it. He looked down and his toes and quoted, "...'His name is Spike.'"

"Sorry?"

"Piper was calling him an 'it.' I wasn't going to say anything, but you..."

"I- -" Angel realized he had been caught defending Spike. This slip-up had to be justified. "The pronouns were getting really confusing."

Wesley braced his hands behind his back and paused for a moment of introspect. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"...What?" Angel sputtered at the faintest hint of concern. He laughed just a little forcefully. "Yes, Wes, geez. I'm fine. It's not like that."

"You've known him for decades. God forbid you express some sentimentality in all this- -"

"It's not. _I'm not_." Angel stole a nervous glance outside his window. "But you're right."

"I am?" Wesley asked, surprised that Angel confessed to it so quickly.

"- -We're not getting anything else from him." He turned to the phone and started searching for the necessary button. "But we have someone who might be able to." Wesley looked unsure, and Angel, misinterpreting the look as cluelessness, hinted, "You know, green? Likes to criticize my taste in music?"

"Yes, of course, but- -do you really think he'll sing for Lorne?"

"No, but he's obviously hiding something, and he's got a big mouth. Maybe Lorne can get him to say something he won't say to us."

* * *

><p>Gunn had to blink when he witnessed the man- -whom he thought was holed up in Angel's office- -being given a tour by their very own green empath. He allowed himself a moment to believe it was a clone or mistake of identity, but no, Lorne was, with a manner of obligation and forced cheer, trying his best to explain to the random stranger how the floors had been organized.<p>

"- -So of course the execs are up here, making all the decisions- -say, where did you say you were from again?"

Gunn didn't blame Lorne for being a little skittish- -anyone getting the look Piper was giving him then had ample reason to be nervous.

Good luck with that, Gunn wished him silently, though uncertain of the purpose of the arrangement.

The two disappeared into the far hallway and he went onward to his original destination.

In a habit he had picked up at the firm, he opened the door and started talking without so much as a 'hello.' "Hey, I looked up the name 'Radoslav Kovec'- -apparently, he was involved in a Bosnian conflict back in the 90's? Foot soldier- -liked to slice and dice girls. He and some of his soldier buddies were brought to trial for war crimes, but he's the one that got away..." Gunn's voice drifted slightly as he noticed their lack of attention. "...And you guys are how many steps ahead of me?"

"You're here," Angel said in passing. "Good. We can get started."

But Gunn noted a glaring omission. "What about Fred?"

"Maybe..."

"I'll call her," Wesley offered. He turned for the phone, but Angel hastily cut him off.

"No, that's... Maybe this isn't the best time."

"Angel, it's Fred. She should know what's going on."

"I..." Angel struggled to articulate his resistance; he still carried that instinct of generations previous, the desire to shield the fairer sex. It didn't matter how illogically it had wedged in his brain. "...Maybe we should give her some space on this one." He exchanged a meaningful glance with Wesley, fishing for approval.

His friend showed a hint of distaste, but didn't argue.

Gunn saw the shared looks and was still trying to make sense of them. He coughed lightly. "Mind filling me in?"

Wesley said, "He indicated... That Radoslav may well seek to place Spike on the market."

The awkwardness of the comment passed, but Gunn evidently still needed time for the information to sink in. He blinked, leaned forward, and twisted his expression. "Say what?"

Wesley was not about to repeat himself.

"Are you telling me he's gonna sell him?" He shot a questioning glance in Angel's direction. "That happens?"

"I... Well..." Angel drummed his fingers and conceded, "I guess I've _heard_ of it. But I've never encountered it."

"I wouldn't doubt it," Wesley said. "I imagine they operate similarly to human traffickers: preying on individuals without close bonds or connections. They wouldn't normally target any vampires with high profiles or family groups such as yourself." He paused. "Or Spike, I suppose."

"Guess these aren't normal circumstances," mulled Gunn.

"Yes." Wesley fixed his glasses, trying to appear casual. "Quite right."

The talk had agitated Gunn considerably. As a former vampire hunter, he knew the thrill of slaying, but he struggled to understand turning the hunt into a more business-like enterprise. "Sorry, maybe I'm having a mental block, but why? Who would want to buy a vamp?"

Angel redirected his attention. "Wes, how much do you know about this sort of thing?"

"...This particular black market has been the stuff of urban legend among Watchers for a very long time." Wesley opened up as calmly as he could, despite the miserable staring he received from both angles. They awaited his words as if they were a verdict-an anticipation he couldn't match. "If we take this 'Piper' at his word-if he's right-then, as he suggested, we're most likely looking at tissue and organ harvesting."

"For transplants?" Gunn asked skeptically.

"No- -vampire organs are useless in that respect," Wesley said. "However, medical schools and labs are always on the lookout for dissection material. If one were to fake the paperwork well enough, one could make quite a lucrative business from removing vampire organs and passing them off as fresh."

Angel didn't appear to be enjoying this direction and snapped, "Okay, medical labs. Check. What else?"

"There are a number of spells that involve the body parts of the undead. Practitioners of dark magic may opt to buy a vampire to forgo the trouble of catching one themselves. And then, of course, there are collectors who are only in it for the thrill of hoarding rarities."

"So, Spike may end up on a dissection table, in a spell circle, or a jar of formaldehyde." Angel pressed his hands against the desk in an uneven, agitated manner, like he was laying out the options before him and weighing their desirability. He groused, "Wonderful."

"It's nice to have educated guesses on hand, but does this really help us?" Gunn saw that Wesley stiffened defensively and tried to reiterate with a less judgmental tone.

"I'm only saying. All these things are either illegal or generally shady. Unless there's a 'Vampire Livers 'R' Us' in the yellow pages, it's going to be difficult tracking any of these guys down."

"It does present us with a unique problem. But I think we have at our disposal the best possible starting point: our clientele. Perhaps one of our clients has had legal trouble with human remains."

* * *

><p>Angel was lost.<p>

It was a strange predicament to be in when wandering about a building in which he was CEO, but nonetheless, he felt disoriented just enough in turning the last hallway that he had to pause, think, and only come to realize he didn't recognize the doors to his left or right.

In fact, he was so troubled and distracted that he nearly made his second physical collision for the day.

"Woah! Careful now, Angelcakes- -keep moving like that, and you'll flatten somebody."

_Lorne_. Immediately, Angel noticed something off in the demon's demeanor- -the usual smooth and calm attitude had mostly evaporated, replaced with a strange agitation. Angel suspected he knew the source of the anxiety, so he collected himself and started to speak with a lopsided smile. "Oh, hey, Lorne. Good timing, I was just thinking about- -" Angel, hearing an odd sound, craned his neck to find Piper standing there sipping on a can of soda. He tried- -and failed- -to disguise a slight scowl. "...He's still here?"

"I took the whole tour, yo," Piper half-slurred, so petrified with boredom that he could barely pronounce his English. "You got a big-ass building, just saying."

Lorne forced a smile and patted Angel's on the shoulder. "Isn't he a charmer?" He lowered his voice to a mumble, pulling them both just out of earshot. "I kept him busy as long as I could, but there's only so many offices to show off before a person's eyes start to glaze over."

"Did he sing?" Angel asked, though he knew that was too much to hope for.

Lorne, as kindly as possible, scoffed. "Hey, _you_ try working a song number into casual conversation."

He had a very good point. Angel shifted his glance momentarily in Piper's direction, but the man was aloof and unreadable as ever.

"Are you feeling all right?" Lorne asked him. "Granted, you've never worn your aura in primary colors, but this is murky, even for you."

"Huh?" Angel rubbed his forehead. "Uh, yeah. Look, do you mind? I'm heading to Wes's office- -"

Lorne must have realized that he might lose his chance to shake the Russian, because he momentarily panicked, then leaped to ask, "Mind if we tag along?"

"No problem." Angel stuffed his hands in his pockets when he remembered his initial problem; with a sheepish look, he turned and asked casually, "Though- -where are we?"

* * *

><p>Though Angel dropped many hints, he never convinced Piper to stand outside the office, but seeing as Lorne didn't show any trepidation about his presence, he decided it couldn't hurt. He did, however, bluster and remind the man that whatever they spoke about was <em>private business<em> and not to be interrupted.

Meanwhile, Wesley, for his part, hadn't expected the small crowd, but he took it in stride, welcoming them all inside. "Angel." He immediately sensed what Lorne had. "What's the matter?"

"Uh. It's just- -Gunn."

Wesley stared questioningly.

"He told Fred."

"You changed your mind?"

"No, I didn't," Angel responded, implying the problem. "Look, it doesn't matter- -did you find something?"

"A likely candidate, yes." Wesley opened the file in his possession. "Chester Levy. He's an eccentric and a bit of a connoisseur when it comes to demonic artifacts. Apparently, he's taken up collecting body parts as well- -he's had run-ins with customs before over the shipping of corpses, which is why he's had contact with this firm."

"Levy?" Piper tried to peer over Wesley's shoulder. "I know that guy."

Angel gruffly nudged Piper with an elbow, but Wesley took notice to the comment. "You do?"

"Yeah."

"You know Levy _personally_."

Piper restated impatiently, "That's what I said. He has your vampire?"

"No," Wesley said. "We have no reason to believe he's connected to Spike's abduction; this would be strictly reconnaissance."

"All right." Angel nodded to himself before jutting out his hand for the file. "I'll talk to him."

Wesley, pleasantly surprised by his volunteerism, compliantly handed him the information. "Will you need back up?"

"Can't think of a reason why."

But Wesley kept glancing in Piper's direction, like pressing an unstated suggestion. As soon as Angel realized why, he stiffened, pushed a flabbergasted Piper out the door- -_hey, sorry, we need a minute_- -and closed it in his face.

"Angel," Wesley began, anticipating the oncoming rant.

"I don't..." Angel whirled around and glowered, pointing in the direction of the person now safely behind the door. "I am _not_ taking him anywhere."

Wesley pinched the bridge of his nose. "He says he knows the man. You don't think that might be a good asset?"

Angel couldn't think of any proper excuse. He folded in his arms, fidgeted, looking remarkably uncomfortable. He fumbled out his words, forming them on the fly. "We don't know who he is. He could be a freak or- -"

"I know he seems... Off, but in these circumstances, he isn't especially a threat, is he?"

Both turned their heads to Lorne, who shrugged. "Sorry, I got nada," the demon said. "He is quite the Chatty Cathy, though, once you get him started."

"He's got to be connected to this," Angel said. "He _has_ to."

"I couldn't say, pumpkin. But you're right on the money about one thing: it doesn't take an expert in aura-reading to tell he's not being upfront about something."

Wesley, looking to confirm his own intuition, asked, "Do you think he's dangerous?"

"To himself? Definitely. But to others? That's a tricky call."

"How about to Angel?"

At this, Lorne snorted. "He's a scrawny, uncoordinated twenty-something." He turned to Angel. "I think you'll survive."

The vampire frowned deeply, fidgeted with his foot, and finally muttered, "Okay, fine. But I'm- -I'm not promising anything."

* * *

><p>The car ride went nearly as smoothly as Angel had hoped, aside from a few hiccups- -the first being that Piper came to the lot snuffing and smelling distinctly like cocaine.<p>

_Oh, boy._

Angel wisely chose to not comment, even when Piper burbled a hello and flopped into the passenger seat so clumsily that he nearly slipped to the floor. Piper's legs found their way onto the dashboard; by the time Angel buckled in, Piper appeared quite relaxed, slumped and feet jiggling against the windshield.

"Your feet," Angel snipped.

"Hah?"

"Down."

A grunt came from the back of Piper's throat, but he complied anyhow.

Not long into the drive, Angel resorted to drumming his thumbs on the wheel. He didn't bring up the nerve to fiddle with the radio- -he never much liked what was on, anyway- -so for quite a while, they sat in silence. Piper had taken up texting on his cellular phone to pass the time- -to who and why, Angel couldn't guess. He decided he should at least try to be sociable.

"So." Angel cleared his throat after stopping for a light. "I heard you were, uh, have a nice talk?"

"Eh. I guess." Piper stared longingly out the window for several seconds before an impulse overcame him. He turned intently, finger rubbing his cheek. "That green guy. Lauren?"

"Uh- -_Lorne_."

"Yeah, him. He single?"

Angel, reeling from the reality that someone had, in fact, just asked him that question, had to readjust his grip on the steering wheel. "I- -You know, I haven't really ever thought about it."

Angel waited, half expecting the man to ask for Lorne's phone number or something equally disturbing, but thankfully, Piper left it at that. Angel liked Lorne well enough, but to think about anything involving Lorne in a romantic scenario was decidedly unpalatable.

"He's not..." Angel hesitated. "Gay. At least, I don't think he is? I've never asked- -"

Piper, irritated by Angel's bout of nervous babbling, cut him off. "It was just question."

With that, Piper returned to his phone and Angel, to his thumb-drumming. They didn't speak the rest of the drive.

* * *

><p>After a number of twists and turns in an obscure corner of the city, they pulled up alongside a string of unusual and low-traffic shops. A sex shop located across the street managed to be, by far, the busiest building within range, and even under the glow of streetlights, Angel struggled to figure out which store was their target.<p>

"'Levy's Museum for the Curious.'" Angel read the name off his note for the second time and frowned. "It's supposed to be on this street."

But Piper, trailing off into the distance, paused before a dark window display and let out an indicative grunt. "This look right?"

When Angel, piqued by this comment, drew closer and saw what caught Piper's eye, he unconsciously rubbed his temple. Behind the glass, a stuffed yeti held a welcome sign, grinning like a cartoon character. "...Well, Wes did say 'eccentric.'"

To their surprise, though the small building appeared deserted, the front door was unlocked. Without further ado, they invited themselves in, and were immediately encircled by an unattended gift shop. Racks of t-shirts, postcards, key-chains, shot glasses, and other useless memorabilia glinted in the dim lighting, and with no one around, Piper immediately gravitated toward the row of impulse-buys in the form of candies and gums. Thinking Angel wasn't paying attention, he stuffed a chocolate bar into his coat pocket.

"Careful," Angel said.

Piper quickly tried to hide what he was doing, and looked to Angel for an explanation for the warning.

Angel pointed to him the sign displayed above Piper's head, which read, _All shoplifters will be sucked dry by our pet chupacabra._

Piper read it, rolled his eyes, and defiantly grabbed another chocolate. He felt the need to utter a tired, "Americans."

Albeit exceptionally tacky, the place seemed well-tended-to, free of extraneous dust or garbage. Furthermore, it reveled in its lack of seriousness, a trait that kept it a hair's breadth away from being a conspiracy shop catering to local paranoid-schizophrenics. Behind the gift shop, a banner reading "PROOF ALIENS ARE AMONG US" was whimsically aligned with an inflatable alien toy; no topic appeared too sacred to satirize and market with cheap goods.

Angel glanced over to the check-out counter, but a small sign informed him that the shopkeeper was on break. Deciding that this floor had no occupants, Angel turned his attention to the iron stairwell and sandwich board signs pointing to further exhibits on the second floor, including a 'cursed mask of Zumbaba,' which Angel could say, with confidence, was not a real location.

And, finally, upon searching the similarly-empty second floor, a clatter occurred, and the owner, box of supplies in-hand, tramped upstairs to greet them.

The man was a scrawny creature, pale, bright-eyed, messy-haired, lightly-freckled. He dressed in casual attire- -a simply-colored tee underneath a striped hoodie, worn jeans, van sneakers. Earbuds dangled around his neck, connected to an unseen music player. In all, he had an easy, casual demeanor that must have endeared him to tourists and passing college students, but Angel could tell from his sharp eyes that this was no pothead paranormalist. There was an attentiveness, energy, and discernment to him, traits Angel usually saw in keen businessmen.

"I thought I heard the door," he said, smiling broadly. He took a moment to try to infer their connection to one another, but they were disparate enough in class and looks to not produce any obvious explanation. To this, Levy blinked with just a hint of suspicion. "I was about to close up. Weekday nights are pretty slow this time of year." He looked between them once more, still grinning disarmingly. "But if you want to poke around for a while, be my guest."

Angel was about to respond, but their interaction didn't feel right. Piper showed no interest in speaking and, in fact, elicited no familiar response from their source of information. Flustered by Piper's inattention, Angel flashed Levy a nervous smile and grabbed Piper by the arm. After pulling him aside, he growled under his breath, "I thought you said you knew him."

Piper was unmoved. "I do know him."

"How?"

"I hear his name."

"You- -_ugh_!" Angel briefly debated whether he ought to strangle him on the spot. "Never mind," he sighed. "Just... Let me do the talking."

Piper accepted these terms happily, shuffling back and taking time to examine the artifacts under glass.

"It's a nice little thing you have going," Angel said, being extremely generous. He stared at what appeared to be a cheap African mask glued with Mardi Gras feathers.

"Thanks," Levy burbled cheerfully. "I like to say this was a hobby that got out of hand. I can give you a tour, if you want. I have a genuine mummified Fiji mermaid- -"

"Actually, I have a bigger favor to ask. I'm Angel- -CEO of Wolfram & Hart."

"Wolfram & Hart? Aw, geez, why didn't you say so?" He grabbed Angel's hand and vigorously shook it. "You guys saved my skin. Seriously."

Angel smiled politely and tried to say what he had come for, but Levy anticipated him flawlessly.

"Well, you definitely didn't come to see this fake crap," he said. "How about I give you the grand tour of my private collection? On the house, of course."

* * *

><p>The contents of the basement- -just behind a locked steel door- -were admittedly far more stunning. The artifacts lining the walls and extensive shelves gleamed from delicate and individual care; there was everything from swords to rare medallions to magic staffs. The atmosphere was more like a warehouse than a place designed for presentation; the ceiling lights whirred, the cold cement floor had dust lining its hidden corners. As they traveled down the first row, Levy grinned ear-to-ear.<p>

"So? You like?"

Angel took a moment to look over a mummified corpse of a usurped demonic emperor still resting in his original, brass coffin. He had to question the wisdom of holding this collection in the basement of a non-secured curiosities shop- -everything must have cost millions to bring together- -but he wasn't about to speak to that point aloud.

Levy must have sensed something of Angel's intentions. He chatted amicably, "Most of them are originals- -I don't buy a lot of reproductions. So- -you have anything you wanted to see specifically?"

"Actually, yes. I hear you have an... Uh... Organ collection."

"Awesome! This way..."

Their sources hadn't lied; the row Levy led them to was exceptional in both variety and volume. On dusty metal shelves and under low fluorescent light, there were rows and rows of jars, all filled with murky yellow liquid. The appendages inside were suspended but strangely alive, as if pupating. One shelf for hearts. Another for eyeballs. Another for slabs of lungs, marked smoker and non-smoker. Some were collected from purer demon species, but the true interest was apparent. Nearly every sample came from vampires.

Angel stepped up to one particular jar to stare at a yellow eyeball peering back at him through its cloudy container. Piper, meanwhile, without asking permission, picked up a box and examined the display of vampire fangs inside.

Levy grinned proudly. "Neat, huh?"

Angel at least cognitively understood vampires were not people and therefore not deserving of normal protections, but in his gut, there remained some disgust and- -understandably- -a pang of knee-jerk defensiveness upon seeing the menagerie. He couldn't help but stare into those containers and suppose that, in the right situation, those could easily be _his _eyeballs bobbing in a mason jar.

To be polite, he tried his hand at conversation. "Don't vampire organs... Um... Dissolve after a while?"

"Sure, but, there are some tricks of the trade- -with the right herbs and enchantment, they can be preserved for a good century." Naturally, Levy said this as if it were the _coolest thing ever_. Angel couldn't match his enthusiasm. Trying to keep the rhythm apace, Levy pushed the conversation forward. "So, what can I do you for? I'm not a seller, if that's what you're wondering."

"I'm going to be honest with you," Angel said, preparing to lie. "Fact is, we're concerned with the ethical implications of this sort of collecting."

Levy stared blankly, then, thinking there was some joke he hadn't caught onto, asked, "Wolfram & Hart worries about ethics...?"

Angel cleared his throat and tried to lean his arm against a nearby object, only to realize it was a bin filled with petrified fingers and then withdraw. "Erm, well, we do now. You know, new management, new standards. Just the way it is."

"Well, okay, but... I don't work for you. I'm a client. So while I sympathize with your beliefs, I'm really not obligated..."

As Levy went on and on proving that Angel's argument was a poor one, Angel looked over his shoulder and saw Piper holding two vampire fangs and pinning them against his mouth, even shoving them up his lip, as if trying them on. Angel almost told him to knock-it-off-for-God's-sake, but the invasion of property was obviously starting to disturb Levy, causing small hiccups in his 'I-respect-you-but' speech.

At last, Angel had enough. "You know," Angel remarked, speaking in a drawn out, vaguely threatening voice, "I can only wonder what would happen if word got out about your collection here." God, he loved this part of the job. The invasion of personal space, watching their face slowly change to horror as the suggestion sank through...

But his mystique immediately shattered when Piper, vampire fangs in hand, answered his question, apparently believing Angel to be a complete and utter moron.

"Vampires would kill him." He jabbed the fangs mid-air, demonstrating the act. "Duh."

"I- -" Angel bit his tongue and sighed. "Yeah," he growled sarcastically, "thanks."

"Woah; wait a minute!" Levy had the audacity to act indignant. "Are you threatening me?"

"...Uh, yeah, I am."

"He definitely is," Piper helpfully confirmed.

The strategy might have been a bit childish, but even Levy's keen instincts knew better than to test his luck. He let out a defeated sigh. "Look... Whatever it is you want... I've never hurt anyone. I buy from reputable sellers; I'm sure they're all very humane- -"

"Let's talk sellers, then. How do you find them?"

He relaxed slightly. "It's not like these are notices you find on a bulletin board. It's pretty much all by word-of-mouth."

"What's the word on Radoslav?"

Levy's cheeks clicked from nervous chewing, but he smirked at the name. "Radoslav? Is that what this is about? Oh, geez. No. I don't buy from him. He's... I'm not even sure why he's in the business. He's sloppy, his goods are never up to par... He's like a little kid running a lemonade stand." To further impress on their lack of connection, Chester added, "Radoslav is no professional. I think he does it for fun."

Sensing Angel's understanding and no longer intimidated, he moved toward Piper to reclaim his property.

"Doesn't surprise me you're after him," he went on, calmly tugging the wooden box from Piper's grip. "He seems like the kind of guy who pisses a lot of people off." As he shelved the box, he peered apologetically over his shoulder. "I swear, I would help if I could. I owe you one, really. But I don't know where he is."

* * *

><p>Reluctant to leave but convinced Levy was telling the truth, Angel thanked the man and left with Piper trotting behind as dumbly as ever. By the time they reached the sidewalk and began to approach the car, Angel decided he ought to vocalize his unhappiness.<p>

"A dead end." Angel sighed. He withdrew his keys and poked around for the remote lock. "Great."

Thinking- -wrongly- -that Angel was addressing him, Piper snorted. "Could have told you that."

"Yeah?" Angel asked, turning and snarling. The entire excursion had just about spent the last of his patience, and the man's attitude had finally hit his last nerve. "And how's that?"

"You see his stuff? Likes merchandise clean. And Radoslav doesn't do clean." Piper gave a bored look at his fingernails and supplied casually, "He always fucks it."

Angel paused. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Piper swaggered broadly, eventually bringing himself around to give Angel a dumb look. "Huh?"

Angel thought for sure this was some non sequitur, some dangling, profane phrase missing a preposition or two. He over-anxiously questioned, "You just said-what, does he... do the cutting himself?"

But Piper appeared no more at ease. He sniffed dryly, scratched his head, and kept a wrinkled, incredulous face. "No, he- -you know, you know. He likes to, you know."

Angel stared.

"Before he sells, he does his thing."

Something cold slid down the ridge of Angel's spine. "What? What thing?"

"He fucks it."

"You're not making any sense; what, what does he- -" But as Angel protested, the words took cohesive form in his mind. He shared a shock-stricken glance with the man before him, and like a blow to the head, he understood. He dropped his keys onto the pavement and reeled. "O-oh, oh my god- -"

Piper read the shock easily and sniffed. "I didn't say before?"

If it were possible for Angel to grow any paler, he would have. Instead, he felt his knees weaken, his skin pimple. He collapsed against the car, gripping at miscellaneous pains rising in his chest and arms.

"Everyone knows that."

Angel reached the level of indignation necessary to wrench him from his stunned silence. "W-who's everyone? How do you know it's not- -?"

"Everyone. People who know him. People in business." Piper sighed and eyed the car, waiting for Angel to unlock it so he could crawl inside. Standing was making him twitchy and impatient.

"I- -oh god, Jesus _Christ_, I..."

A small, almost childish stomp. "Are we going?"

The callousness in Piper's voice snapped Angel into a raging fit. "- -This didn't come up before? It just happened not to occur to you that this is something- -" Despite Angel's best efforts, he couldn't formulate his thoughts. His tongue felt swollen, clumsy, and numb, a languishing fish flopping in his mouth, gills wheezing, eyes wide and stunned. "What did I _do_?"

"Do?"

"He came in- -I let him in- -I shook his hand." Angel was shaking, distracted. He held his hand mid-air, groping a phantasm and drawing the motion over his fingers again and again. "I shook his hand," he repeated, but this time faltering, sucking spit between his teeth. He stooped down to recover his keys. Mechanically, he jerked over to the car, eyes moon-like and warm, and fumbled his way into the driver's seat. Piper tried to follow suit, not sensing the broken dam that overwhelmed Angel's expression, but the key was already in the ignition when he reached the passenger's side.

The car sputtered forward, eluding Piper's reach for the door handle. "Hey- -"

Angel slammed on the gas and spun squealing out of sight.

For the next minute, Piper stood in a stewed daze. He almost didn't believe what had just happened, but he recovered from his surprise enough to stick his thumb violently in the the vapor trail's direction and suck air in through his cheeks with a hiss. His pockets were empty, void of any phone or wallet- -a fact he discerned by unevenly slapping himself down and stuttering Russian swears to himself.

"B'lyad- _-fuck, where's my phone, fuck, what's that guy's problem_?"

He turned to the shop, and saw that Levy lingered at the door.

"Hey," he called out, holding out his arms in defeat and nearly tipping over as he did so. "Can I use your phone?"

The door closed.


	5. Book 1, Chapter 4: Crash

**Chapter 4: Crash**

_(A/N: A short chapter this time around! Next one should be done shortly.)_

* * *

><p>Angel blinked. Once. Twice. Surrounding him was the smell of leaking motor oil, hot leather, fractured, warm glass. A sharp pain gouged through his gut and slowly worked its way up his stomach and throat.<p>

On that summer night, below a beaming moon and in the thick of a local park's forested underbelly, he slowly peeled himself from the wreck.

* * *

><p>"I don't believe this!" Spike whined as loud as humanly possible.<p>

The two very unhappy vampires had made little progress in their journey thus far. An impromptu demon hunt had led them to the outskirts of L.A., where they learned, with swift brutality, that though Sweglar demons might not look intimidating, they had the strength to side-sweep a car clean off the road. So, smeared with ash, sand, and Sweglar bile, the two dragged themselves from the site of a blazing car wreck and, eyes set on the city, walked.

Normally, they could have called for a ride and wouldn't have to bother with such a grueling trek. But Spike had, in the midst of the accident, landed quite hard on the side holding his cellular phone, a fact Spike discerned once they emerged from the wreckage and plunged his hand into his pocket to bring out only bits and pieces. Then, to complete their misfortune, Angel's phone had run out of battery.

"Bloody perfect," Spike continued to bemoan. "Who _forgets _to charge their mobile?"

"I'm not used to having it!" Angel squawked. He momentarily brought out the device to fiddle with it, though for now, it was no more useful than a brick. "I brought change," he said, offering an alternative.

Spike frowned. "Change?"

"For a pay phone."

This news only served to further enrage his partner. "Brilliant! Let's find a pay phone." Spike twirled demonstratively, arms reaching out toward every corner of the surrounding, and quite empty, desert.

"We'll find one... Eventually."

Spike muttered under his breath, "If the sun doesn't come up first."

"I didn't _ask _you to come along, you know," Angel blurted out, having had enough of Spike's whinging. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I asked you _not_ to!"

"Like I'm going to stay home and knit."

"...You know what? Forget _here_. Remind me why you're still in Los Angeles."

Spike knew exactly where the conversation was headed, and anticipated it with a huge, resentful sigh. "Here we go."

"You could be frolicking off to Europe, chasing after a girl who we both know is in love with _me_- -"

Spike, for the sake of time, chose to disregard Angel's latter assumption. "Told you, mate. Got my reasons why I can't see her yet."

"Then don't go to Buffy. You could go somewhere else. There are a lot of places where Buffy _isn't_."

"And do what?"

"You have friends."

"Oh, yeah! My evil friends! There's a plan. 'Hey, remember me? It's Spike. Got me a soul now; want to hang?'"

"I'm sure they'd be understanding."

"...Don't say you don't get it just a little," Spike retorted. "I can't go back. Now that I've been _here,_ now that I've been fried, ghosted, and yanked back, and seen all this, and tasted it- -I can't bloody well go back to mucking around in alleyways."

"You told me I had made a devil's bargain. Now you want in on it?" Angel shook himself. "You think this fun and games- -all you see is the shiny building, sports cars, and fancy suits. But it's _not, _Spike. They want to _use_ us."

Spike released another exaggerated sigh, steadying his limp long enough to kick at a stray rock. "Yes, I know. They dined you, tumbled you, didn't call you in the morning. Consider me _forewarned_. I just wanna be a part of something, yeah?"

They walked. Their eyes easily adjusted to the pitch black of the wasteland, but a quick glance backward would have revealed how agonizingly little distance they had covered. They could still smell the smoke.

"You know what I think?" Spike piped up, refusing to back down completely. "You're afraid of a little competition."

"You're not competition!" Angel snarled. He stormed up to Spike until they stood barely inches apart, and he used every bit of his height to his advantage, forcing Spike to lean aback to avoid flying spittle. "You haven't learned anything from the entire Lindsey debacle, have you? You're not my competition for being a Champion, you're not my competition for Shanshu! You're just a _distraction_!"

With this, Angel had- -for the most part- -the last say. Spike sputtered a bit but had no adequate comeback, so they both fell into tense silence. Angel could hear Spike pouting as they walked onward; it was all in the deliberation of his footsteps. He must have stomped for a good half-mile- -a remarkable feat, considering his condition after being smashed through a windshield and bounced off pavement. Eventually, though, Spike's tantrum averted due to fatigue, and the younger vampire sucked his cheeks and sniffed, as he always did when trying to demonstrate how very stoic he was. "Could thank me, you know."

Angel, exhausted by their bickering, asked lazily, "For what?"

"Pulled you from the fiery wreck, for one. Saved you from being well-done."

"...Took your sweet time doing it."

"Still _did it, _though, didn't I?" Spike puffed up his chest. "I think I deserve a medal."

"If I burned, you wouldn't get paid. That's economics, not heroics."

"Whatever. Saved your arse this time. Means you owe me." Spike spotted a bright flash of light in the dark which, after a few seconds, morphed into the form of a moving car; he sprinted into the street, waving his arms and attempting to whistle with his dry, singed lips. "Oi! You there! A little help?"

* * *

><p>"...Mr. Angel?"<p>

Angel shook, startled by the sudden sound of a human voice. Having snapped out of his stupor, he found himself on an abandoned park corner, only a few yards from the crumpled remains of his vehicle. Before him, a car window had lowered to reveal a young man looking at him expectantly from behind the wheel.

"I'm here to take you back," the driver volunteered.

Angel, still in a daze, muttered a faintly confused, "Right." In a moment of disorientation, he lifted his head over the hood of the car and peered into the far darkness, where he thought he saw a streak of movement in the road. His eyebrows furrowed.

The driver looked in the same direction but only saw the movement of trees in the late breeze. "Is there someone else?"

"Hmm?" Angel shook his head. "Oh, no."

Angel got into the car and avoided eye contact best he could- -an easy feat without a reflection.

"Another accident, huh?" The driver adjusted his rear-view mirror and smirked. "Mr. Angel, if you don't mind me saying, you do go through your vehicles. What happened this time?"

"Nothing." Angel folded his hands and sat stiff, his spine raw and head throbbing. "I got distracted."

* * *

><p>Angel stepped off the elevator and everything ground to an eerie halt.<p>

Wesley was the first one to speak. "Good lord."

"What- -what happened?" Fred asked.

Angel looked at them almost like he didn't know what they were talking about, but Fred pointed frantically at his bleeding arm, his tattered coat, the mud that soaked his legs up to the knees. Even the tips of his hair were singed. "I-" He gave them all a glazed stare, appearing childlike and lost. "- -Crashed my car."

The news was so alarming that it took them some time to think of an objection. Wesley suddenly remembered Angel's passenger and worriedly asked, "Wasn't Piper with you?- -"

"He's fine. I dropped him off."

_Well, so long as no one was hurt, _Wesley thought. But the accident, even without context, held clear psychological weight. It begged the question.

Gunn took initiative. "You find out anything?"

In the few seconds it took for Gunn to ask this question, however, Angel appeared to have lost track of his train of thought, as he fumbled in the direction of his office, paused, hesitated, then aimlessly began spinning in place, like a man who had forgotten something and desperately wanted to remember it. In the midst of this process, the question finally caught on and he stammered, "O-oh, no, no, I didn't..."

"You hit your head on the way into that ditch?" Gunn asked suspiciously.

"A little. Maybe." He blinked the stars out of his eyes. "I think I just need a- -I need some sleep."

All three turned to look at one another.

"You want to take a nap," Gunn spoke disbelievingly. "_Right now._"

Angel didn't sense Gunn- -or the others'- -confusion. He waved obliquely, body turned for the office once more. "We'll talk later, okay?"

* * *

><p>The sad truth was the three had assembled in anticipation of his arrival- -only minutes before, they heard he was in the parking lot and coming upstairs. Unsure now of what to do, they reluctantly agreed to disperse and try again in an hour. An hour passed; no Angel. They allowed one more hour, and then came to the conclusion that something was off. An unanswered phone call later, they reconvened.<p>

"Geez." Gunn didn't know what to think; he shrugged and commented, "He's taking this kind of hard, isn't he? Over Spike?"

"They have a... complicated relationship," Wesley said, putting it mildly as usual. Privately, though, he suspected there was more to the matter than Angel was letting on. "I suppose I'll... Go see what's wrong."

Wesley tried to look at Fred to exchange an assuring smile, but she looked away.

The separation had become abundantly clear to him; there existed an intangible wall between them, with Gunn and Fred standing on one side, and he the other. With Fred, at least, he could understand the reaction- -to find out one had been purposefully excluded must have stung. But Gunn had yet to articulate his intentions. There was something very chilly and very resentful in him- -and the more secrecy was about him, the deeper scowl he carried.

"Keep us in the loop," Gunn said, hinting that this was a demand, not a request.

Wesley nodded but- -wisely- -didn't verbalize any promise.

* * *

><p>He came upstairs thinking that the door would be locked and he would need to employ his excellent reasoning skills to gain entry.<p>

But he reached for the doorknob and found it open.

He took his next few steps timidly, and upon entering the apartment, he momentarily worried that Angel had sustained an injury. That might explain the long rest. He scrolled his eyes about the half-lit rooms, expecting to see Angel strewn on his bed or sofa.

Instead, Angel stood at the end of a small trail of mud and against the end table, wrestling a flask of whiskey to refill his tumbler.

"Angel?"

Angel didn't respond, only wobbled, fumbled, let out an exasperated sigh when, at last, he liberated the bottles contents.

"Are..." Wesley's vision traced the various bottles scattered beside the table and fell back on Angel's tipsy demeanor. "Are you _drunk_?"

Angel bumped into the table sluggishly, and broke with a sloppy and undetermined expression that appeared to meld a wry humor and despair. Seeing no cause to lie, he said, "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

Wesley, glad for the honesty at least, pursed his lips. His fists tensed against his sides. "Something's wrong."

Angel motioned for him to take a seat and he did.

* * *

><p>The air in the room smelled stale and fermented, soaking up alcohol and anxiety like a sponge. Wesley, for his part, hadn't made a sound, only folding his hands tightly across his brow and splitting his lips in anticipation of finding his words.<p>

Angel dipped his finger into his tumbler glass and let the ice melt against it.

"Did he seem fairly certain?" Wesley finally summoned the courage to croak out.

Angel shrugged.

"What I mean is-what proof did he have?"

"Hearsay," Angel admitted. "Said 'everyone knows'- -"

"That's hardly conclusive," Wesley said. He was glad to be able to provide skepticism. "I'd be wary of anything he has to tell us. We still don't know who he is, what his intentions are..."

Angel slammed his drink down on his table, his eyes lit with vessel-bursting frustration. "Shouldn't we have _known_? How does 'fetish for vampires' not show up in anything we've read? It's not some _innocuous_ thing, and somehow _no one_ knows about it until he's already been standing in my office?"

"All the more reason to doubt its legitimacy."

"When Radoslav looked at me- -god, I should have sensed it- -"

"There's nothing you could have anticipated."

"No?" Angel mournfully turned his sight onto the label of the liquor bottle. He spoke sharply, almost accusing. "I know what you're thinking."

Wesley didn't know how to respond to the allegation. He raised an eyebrow. "Do you, now?"

"If it had been someone else... Someone like Fred, I would have turned this city inside-out already. We wouldn't still be talking to contacts and twiddling our thumbs. I'd be breaking the fingers of anyone I thought had _any_ idea- -"

"It's an unfair comparison," Wesley quietly reminded him. "Fred is human."

"Dammit, that's not the point!"

"Then what?"

Angel concentrated, shutting his eyes from strain. He at last spoke, mouthing the words numbly. "Sometimes, when I watch the news, a story will show up. Some murder, some rape... Some horrible thing that happened to someone I don't know know. Those stories keep me up at night. I'll lie down and stare at the ceiling thinking about a kidnapped girl in Utah; I can't sleep a wink. The night Buffy called to tell me Spike was dead, I slept like a baby." He puzzled over his own words and examined the carpet between his shoes. "I've always wanted to get rid of him."

"Magical thinking," Wesley said. Angel brought up his head to give him a strange look, so the man explained, "You can't make things happen simply by willing them."

"I'm not saying I caused it, Wes, I'm saying-" Angel bit his lip and shivered, his eyes bright in the moonlight. "There's a part of me that doesn't want to save him."

The vampire slumped hard, breathing hitched. He waited for Wesley to react with due horror, but Wes- -dear, objective, understanding Wes- -merely pinched his brow and said with a dryness that could snap bones, "I see."

"I'm not up to this." Wesley per his former occupation, said nothing and watched. Angel's contrition made his plea sound garbled. "Please- -don't tell the others."

Wesley, though he couldn't be sure why he would ever tell anyone of this confession, nodded all the same. He squeezed hard against Angel's shoulder, whispered assurances. But everything he could think to say felt insufficient.

* * *

><p>Wesley came down to tell the others that the visit had been useless, and that it was time to get some sleep. Objections to this plan were few; though none of them wished to pause, even for a moment, they would soon go mad for lack of rest, and that would do Spike no good. However, the next morning, a meeting called Gunn and Fred into Angel's office, where they fully expected to find Angel and receive his debriefing on the situation, and instead, they found Wesley leaning coldly against the desk, arms crossed, eyes dark with thought.<p>

Gunn looked around the room, perhaps thinking their boss was hiding behind something. "Where's Angel?"

"Angel has requested that I serve as proxy for him until such a time that he feels... Capable."

"...Okay." Gunn furrowed his brow. "What the hell does _that_ mean?"

"Is he hurt?" Fred asked.

Wesley's eyes brightened and eased somewhat as he lifted his brow. He shook his head. "No, he's not injured. He's simply..." In his head, he thought _inebriated_ but he censored himself. "Not in a constructive mental state."

Gunn snapped a pen back into his pocket and grumbled. "Brooding, you mean."

"Regardless of what he is, he wants us to keep..."

Gunn cut him off. "That's _bull_, Wes, and you know it."

The spike in tension caused Fred to swallow, breathe in a moment of desperation, and stammer, "I think I- -I'll go."

"Don't bother," Gunn assured her. "This is about all of us."

Wesley, doing his best not to overreact, stepped from the desk and put on his most amicable tone. "Gunn, try to be understanding."

"I _do _understand, Wes. And it doesn't matter. Spike and I aren't what you would call 'friends.' Frankly, he's an ass. But that don't mean I'm going to sit here while somebody makes sashimi out of him."

"He's_ not_ giving up," Wesley cut in, surprised by Gunn's hostility.

"Yeah? He give any marching orders to you?" Wesley thought on it, twitched, but said nothing. Gunn nodded knowingly. "Didn't think so. That speaks for itself, don't it?"

"We'll only have to..."

"I can't play to this. I won't. If he won't do anything, _I will_." The closed statement clasped all mouths shut. Before Wesley could explain the complexity of their situation- -sans unfortunate details- -the younger man, with an intensity in his eyes none dared opposed, turned for the door.

"Gunn," Fred said after him.

But neither of them could coax him out of it. Without another word, Gunn walked out the door and into the elevator- -going down.


	6. Book 1, Chapter 5: Anthropophagy

**Chapter 5: Anthropophagy**

Wesley tried not to let his exhaustion show through, but by the time he reached the top floor, he had lost much of the battle.

Hubris might be blamed for Wesley charging in, thinking that taking on Angel's responsibilities (while still managing his own) would not be overwhelming. He had, after all, seen Angel "work," and from a superficial perspective, he didn't appear to do anything but sign papers and gripe at the deserving. The task of running the firm, however, proved to be much more than Wesley ever anticipated. By the second day, he had so tired of angry staff ranting against their neglect that he took to locking the office doors, feeling much like a guard trying to fend off the Storm of Bastille.

The elevator doors opened and he bee-lined for the office.

Harmony sat unassumingly in her usual spot, thumbing through a fashion magazine. Ever since she realized the gravity of Spike's situation, she had gotten more feckless, but in a move that showed she had started to come out of her shell, she glanced up, saw Wesley, and- -sort of- -smiled.

He had previously assured her that he didn't need her running around on his behalf- -he had done well enough before without a secretary brewing his coffee or ironing his clothes. But, he mused, seeing a mug sitting atop Harmony's desk, _habits die hard_.

"Good morning," he said, casually taking hold of the mug and bringing it to his lips.

Harmony opened her mouth to greet him in similar fashion, but somehow, seeing Wesley with the cup caused some revelation to seize her. "Coffee!" she yelped in alarm, gaping at the mug at his mouth.

Wesley froze and, after considering the meaning of her outburst, looked down at the murky drink.

"You want _coffee_," she said, an apologetic strain to her words.

"Y- -yes." He set down the mug of blood gingerly, trying not to gag from the close call.

"Sorry! Sorry! I keep forgetting it's you- -"

"Quite all right."

Scrambling to make up for her mistake, she stood and scooped up the cup. She stole a moment when she realized he was still reeling, thinking, perhaps, that this was her chance to know what he was thinking. "So-o-o." Harmony tried- -and failed- -to sound natural. "Any news...? You know, maybe a lead or...?"

"Harmony, my coffee."

Seeing he didn't feel like sharing, she huffed and relented. "Coming right up," she said, a hint of sarcasm lacing her voice.

Wesley, unshaken, moved forward.

* * *

><p>Wesley locked the office doors per his new habit, but after turning for the desk and hearing the clearing of a throat behind him, he found himself unguarded.<p>

"Pryce! Fancy finding you here."

He turned around and there, prim, smiling, and with hands tucked at the small of her back, was Eve. Wesley had assumed she had vanished completely, but, much like an unwanted rash, it seemed she had returned. He answered her with a false smile of his own and an astonished utterance. "Eve. What a- -" He paused and chortled sheepishly at his own foolishness, then sank into a brittle, sharp tone. "I must be tired. I nearly called you a 'pleasant surprise.'"

"Enjoying the view from behind Angel's desk? Is this your form of a coup?"

"Angel's still very much in command."

"Good, because the Senior Partners are itching to have a word with him."

Wesley took a seat in Angel's chair but didn't turn around, even when she approached the elevator and raised a hand to the dial. "I wouldn't advise going up there."

She glanced at him, mouth quivering slightly. She wasn't sure if she ought to take it as a threat or sound advice. "No?"

"Angel's indisposed for the moment. I suggest anything you want to say to him, you say to me."

"A coup after all," she joylessly observed, cocking her head to the side. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, as if to peek through a window into Angel's private world. "So, what _has_ the Emperor been doing for- -what is it- -three days now? Fiddling while Rome burns?"

Wesley rested his chin against his taut fist. "What do you want?"

"It's about this recovery operation. We commend your kids' pluck, that's for sure." She thrusted her arm in a mock gesture of vigor. "But the Partners worry the situation has become... unwieldy."

Wesley looked distinctly unimpressed. He positioned himself as business-like as possible in the armchair, taking on Angel's usual ambivalence. "And how do you suggest we 'wield' it?"

"It's time to think hard on your financial obligations, Pryce. You've already spent an awful lot on one narrow project."

"Spike's a valuable asset to this firm," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Oh, the Senior Partners don't deny that Spike has his value. Maybe they haven't been paying too much attention to him, since, hello, they have bigger fish to fry, but valuable? Absolutely. What you seem to be missing, though," she continued, lips curled in her usual cute, unassuming, potentially lethal smile, "is that Spike has only ever been valuable because he's disposable." She leaned in, her pinpoint eyes searching his expression for so much as a tic of weakness. As her words settled in his mind, she recklessly pried, "So, what do you say?"

Before Wesley gave his reply, he blinked, removed his glasses, and cleaned them.

* * *

><p>If there was any tactic Eve was even more comfortable with than rule-by-utilitarianism, it was her divide-and-conquer strategy, so while this morning she had endured some mild disappointment, by no means did she stand defeated. Wesley had his reply- -and he could keep it for all she cared.<p>

Was it too much to ask to get these slackers to abandon some sentimentality once in a while? Angel, she could understand- -that bleeding heart was pretty much nothing _but_ a big, sopping ball of sentiment. But the others? How long had any of them known this guy? A few months?

She knew entering Angel's apartment would be a mistake, but it didn't matter. Even if she couldn't bludgeon reason into his his skull- -a likely scenario, she admitted- -she had to put in a good faith attempt. The Partners would stand for no less.

The upstairs apartment remained only half-lit: dim, cold, stinking of medicine and congealed blood. She spotted Angel immediately, as he was not in hiding. He sat on the couch, his feet propped against the coffee table and his expression contorted with concentration. He hadn't allowed anyone come in the last few days, and this included the maid, so the table, along with everything else, was cluttered beyond recognition. The liquor cabinet had been raided, re-stocked, and raided again several times over, and evidence of this littered the floor.

Eve lithely stepped over an overturned bottle and awaited Angel's response to her presence.

With pencil and paper in hand, he sketched.

...She tapped her foot on the carpet. He had to have noticed her by now- -he was clearly ignoring her on purpose.

"A-_hem_."

"Oh, Eve," he said, pretending to be surprised. He leaned back, pushing the paper aside and happily clicking the ice in his tumbler. "Drink?"

"Looks to me like you're drinking enough for the both of us."

Angel laughed a little too much at her quip and promptly started to grope for a refill.

Her eyes trailed up and down his figure, effortlessly assessing his condition. Hair mussed. Clothing ripe and in disarray. Eyes heavy with lack of sleep. "Working hard?"

"I'm on vacation."

"You chose a funny time to kick back."

"What can I say?" Angel replied dryly. "I deserve it."

"With the way things are running right now?"

"Wes is taking care of it," Angel said, waving a hand to show his lack of concern.

"I swear it's like ping-pong with you two," she purred. "He says it's your call; you say it's his call..."

Her ploy was transparent enough for even a drunk Angel to call her out. "If it makes no difference to you, we're making the same call."

"Sticking to your guns? Keeping up this crusade?"

At last tiring of her complaining, he asked, "What do you want, Eve?"

She sidled up to the side of the sofa, perching lightly on its arm. "You're CEO. The firm's interest is your interest. You are going to put those resources right back where they belong- -with our clientele."

"And if I say no?"

"The boys upstairs will force your hand if need be."

Eyes cold and knuckles white, Angel somewhat pathetically threatened, "Then I quit."

Eve didn't bother holding back her trademark smirk and scoffing laughter. Like a woman confronting a toddler in the midst of a tantrum, she folded her arms and shook her head. "_Please_, Angel. Don't be so melodramatic. Even you know it's not that simple."

"Maybe not, but your coming here stinks of desperation." He twisted his face to feign sympathy. "Aww, I'm sorry. Wes wouldn't play along?"

"Usually he's all about making the hard choices," she barbed back, not verbalizing but still well hinting at their personal history. "You must be rubbing off on him."

"I've told you: I like him as a friend." He pointed at a bottle at the other end of the table. "Pass me that rum, will you?"

As if to comply, she stooped down, grabbed the bottle, and swung it in his direction. Just when he reached for it, however, she pulled it back. "Face facts, Angel. He's in pieces by now. Why all the fuss? What do you hope to accomplish?"

"To find a missing member of my team," he answered, staying blunt.

"Look at you. It's all slap-fights and name-calling when he's around, but the moment he's in trouble, you're Mr. White Knight."

"Eve," he started to threaten.

"No," she calmly asserted, a warm smirk sliding across her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the contents of the paper- -a quick, uneven sketch of Spike's profile. With that, she handed over the bottle. "It's cute. You really _are_ family."

Angel, taking up the bottle, solidified his glare, but just when he dreamed up the perfect comeback, his privacy was- -once again- -violated by a wandering stranger throwing their shadow into the room, and he, believing it to be Wesley, unthinkingly snapped, "I know Eve doesn't knock, Wes, but could you..."

But when Angel bothered looking up, he realized his mistake.

"Huh." Gunn looked at Angel, then at Eve, then at Angel again. "Hope I didn't walk in on something kinky."

* * *

><p>It had been so long since Angel had seen Gunn in anything but a business suit that he actually had to do a double-take when the man showed up in a hoodie and jeans. Despite his dress, however, he appeared calm and ready for business.<p>

"Uh..."

"Hey, Angel."

"Look what the cat dragged in," Eve inappropriately spoke up.

"You're about the last person I wanna talk to at this point, so you mind?" He looked at Angel intently. "We got business to tend to."

Though she would have gladly stuck around to drive her point, after facing Angel's rejection, she decided Gunn's request wasn't unreasonable. Trying to save face, she smiled and folded her hands. "Right. You two boys get to it. The sooner you find him, the better off we all are."

Angel, watching her leave, uttered a sour, "Yeah, you're a real bleeding heart."

She left, leaving the two mercifully alone.

Gunn cleared his throat.

For the first time, Angel was aware of his haggard appearance, and in his embarrassment, he put down the liquor and tried to comb his hair with his fingers. "I thought you left," he stated questioningly.

"I _did_. Back now."

"Oh." The vampire stole a glance at his feet.

"How was your, uh, trip?"

"Good," Gunn said carelessly.

"You talk to Wes?"

"Thought I'd hit up the boss first; see if he's ready to stop pouting."

"I'm not pouting," Angel responded in a voice that was, undeniably, a pout.

"Right. Whatever. Point is, I've got a solid lead. You want in or not?"

"What?" Angel struggled to his feet and managed to sound both flustered and cross. "Of- -of course I want in; why wouldn't I?"

"Just checking." Wearing a wearied and humorless look, he glanced at the armchairs and eventually took a seat. He didn't even glance at the liquor. "If it isn't obvious already, I've been hitting up some old locales. Figured if anybody knew news about vamp-snatchers, it would be vamp-hunters. It's an 'everybody-knows-everybody' kind of network. "

"You found Radoslav?"

"Not quite. He's the business side of things. But I found the next best thing."

"You mean..." Gunn nodded. "The Latina shutterbug. Turns out she's a hunter- -doesn't work alone, either. Her and her boy-toy like to nab vamps from bars, usually for personal kicks."

The connection. After days, they _finally had a connection_. Angel, dizzy with anticipation, pushed himself to his feet, knocking over bottles in the process. "Then- -We- -We have to find her, right? How do we- -"

Gunn spoke with calmly and coolly. "They have their usual haunts- -hit 'em in cycles, apparently. And I've got word on their next rotation: club by the name of 'Carnival.'"

* * *

><p>Tonight was beautiful.<p>

The night air smelled blissful, Mira thought. It smelled positively _violet_. _Blue and red together_, her thoughts went on, _perfect. The night's gonna be dark and blue as the moon, but it's going to bleed, yeah, we're going to make it one bloody night._

Diego, his eyes lacking poetry, stared at her from the car.

She picked up her camera and was ready for the Carnival.

She had many times before pondered the nature of the name _carnival_. The poet in her tingled at its sound. _Carne, si? _From the Latin _carnis. _Also a root in the English words _carnal, carnage, carnivore..._Flesh, flesh, flesh, all around- -the slicing of it, the skewering and eating, the squeezing and thrusting of it. Los Angeles was a meaty, festive city and the clubs, its bawdy epicenters: girls with skin and breasts and thighs, men with throbbing members and vein-laden eyes.

Vampires miss out, she thinks. They follow these fat cows and can only imagine draining the evanescent insides. They don't appreciate the love that hews tendons, bones, and, blubber.

So she would find one, draw it between her legs, and then show it just how bodies can splinter if you push them enough.

In the low lights, astride the alien glow of the bar, she spotted a good candidate. Tall, dark, handsome. A quick view with her camera's viewfinder, and her suspicions were confirmed.

_Here boy, kiss kiss. Time to play, mi perrito._

She decided not to play hard to get tonight; this one, after all, was already giving her a gleaming eye. It would need no convincing or prodding. She let herself swallow and flick her hair, showing she was flattered by his attention. Indeed, he was a fine one. He had dark eyes, thin lips, a sturdy, lion-like body that could snap her in two. With many vampires, she could tell sex was the furthest thing from their mind when they looked at her- -their eyes sealed onto her throat, not bothering to take in the splendor of her hips, thighs, breasts. They were all business. But not this one. Its eyes scrawled down her until she could feel them along her body, like cold, damp fingers. He wanted it all.

She shivered.

As she sauntered closer, she decided that she would make an exception. He was gorgeous, grand. She would let him get further along than most others- -let him take her a little longer before she gave the signal and Diego hammered his brains out. Ever since the last vampire they picked up, she had longed for another beautiful one. The blonde one had been special. A magnificent fuck. She was sad to see that one go.

But Diego got jealous so easily, and the money those men offered...

No, no time to dwell on that. The new one was smiling at her and flirting from a distance.

She decided to take a little more time making her way into the seat next to him, if only to drive him crazy- -there was nothing quite like making a vampire wait. But after weaving around a chair or two, she finally granted him his prize. Eye contact.

Not five seconds later, she slipped into the bar stool next to him.

"Hi."

He didn't speak, but she could read the openness in his eyes.

"I'm Mira," she greeted warmly, offering a hand.

The vampire smiled and took it in its lukewarm grip. A thrill shot up her arm when he answered in turn, "Angel."

"Angel?" She stood in awe of his face- -even handsomer upon closer inspection. "Your name suits you."

"That could be debated."

"Ah, you're a bad boy, huh?" In one smooth movement, she had her hand on his bicep and squeezed.

He didn't quite respond the way she anticipated, though. Rather than continuing his ogling, he turned serious, business-like. Ignoring her hand, he pointed to the camera she carried about her neck. "Nice camera."

"You like? I'm a photography student at the..."

"It's the viewfinder that does it, right?"

Mira stopped, not sure what he meant.

"It's what you use to pick us out."

_Wrong. Bad. _She yanked back her hand. Everything inside her screamed for her to turn and run; her heartbeat kicked into overdrive.

"Old style cameras use a mirror prism. Lots of people don't know that. So when you look through the viewfinder, you're actually looking at a reflection of whatever- -whoever- -you're pointing at."

"H- -ha?"

"It's a good trick," Angel conceded. "People don't notice cameras. They're everywhere these days."

"Ah. Ha ha ha." Her laughter slowed to a standstill; something in her eyes shifted as realization dawned on her. She forced a grin and tried to play it off as a mistake, stepping back to slip away into the night. He might be a vampire, but so long as the bar remained crowded, she knew he would take no action. "No, no entiendo..."

When she turned around, she could swear the entire population of the club was staring at her, and in a sudden moment of self-awareness, she lowered her eyes and started to move. The vampire tried to grab her, but stuck his talons into the fur lining of her coats rather than flesh. She squealed, quaked, thrashed. The coat fell, and feeling half-naked, she ran.

Just as she reached the door and felt the flow of the free evening air, a movement in the dark startled her, and a figure materialized before her.

She couldn't stop herself- -they collided.

A hand gripped her arm and she screeched, then furiously kicked, aiming the toe of her high-heel at the figure's shins. When it only grunted in response, she weepily stuffed a hand down her shirt, yanked out a rosary, and, with its beads flying and splashing onto the ground, pressed it as hard as she could against her attacker's hand.

Nothing. No smoke, no smell of embers.

It was even worse than she thought.

Panting and shivering, she stammered into the darkness, "P-p-por favor, p-pero..."

"No habla Engles? Right. Nice try."

She squinted, and could see that the confirmed human was a tall black man. Her mind struggled to think of the myriad of ways she might have offended him or his associates. Was it a gang? A racket? A mugging?

"Mira, right?" he asked, full of playful mirth. He waved a photograph in front of her- -a picture of the blonde vampire from several nights ago. "Ever put an ice pick to this guy?"

* * *

><p>Dozens of Wolfram &amp; Hart security personnel- -all of whom were decidedly unnecessary for such a small operation- -had descended upon the car in which a demure, slightly drugged man who stammered in Spanish before promptly surrendering.<p>

Wesley could only hope this would all be worth it. It had finally drawn Angel out of his shell, after all, so it would be a sore disappointment for this lead, too, to go nowhere.

Fred, having insisted she go along, was the first to notice the myriad of equipment inside the car. "Wes."

He subconsciously unzipped his jacket. The night was sweltering.

"Wes, look- -"

He saw her opening the car door, and just when he thought to suggest not snooping if they could help it, she already sorted through compact disc cases. Media spilled out of the car, clattering against the sidewalk.

"Wow, look, wow."

There were cameras and camcorders and microphones and blank CD's. Loose cardboard boxes.

"God, _look _at all this."

But as Fred viewed the collection, treating it with some reserved respect as one would give to the tools of a man's hobby, Wesley reached over her shoulder, took hold of one disc, and somehow, just holding it, he knew its nature. It felt sticky and hot, like fresh roadkill.

"What's it all for, you think?"  
>"Who knows?" he lied, slipping the disc into his coat pocket. "I doubt it's anything wholesome."<br>Their curiosity had to satiated quickly; Diego's better half was already on her way.

Hysterical screaming drew everyone's attention to the front of the bar. Even complete strangers on the street had slowed to a halt to gawk at the number of security agents and the foreboding sound of a woman crying for help.

"_No! No! Usted es- -_"

The girl, donned in an exceptionally small top and what seemed to be an even smaller skirt, hobbled down the sidewalk, pushed from both sides by Gunn and Angel respectively. Mascara ran down her cheeks in fat, charcoal drips, and Wesley doubted they were fake. She looked positively terrified and helpless.

Gunn and Angel finally dragged her near to the van, and it was there she changed her attitude

"_Aye-i-i-i!_" The girl roared indignantly, tossing and turning in an effort to wiggle from his grip. "You're _hurting _me!"

Gunn couldn't help but smirk. "Oh, now you speak English."

She spat in his face.

After wrestling her into the back of yet another van, Wesley came forward to tap Angel on the shoulder and summon his attention. "Angel, are we sure about this strategy?"

"Why?"

"We _are _kidnapping them." He pointed to the growing crowd. "With an audience."

Angel considered this very briefly, but it was clear from his expression he didn't harbor much in the way of doubt. "They'll get over it," he decided aloud.

The van door closed- -and locked.

* * *

><p>Wesley had never met a woman as desperately manipulative as Mira. From the moment they dragged her into the van, she started to churn through personas, indiscriminately taking on any personality she thought could serve her well. One moment she sweetly batted her eyes, pretending to be an innocent caught up in a scandal not of her creation, and the next, she wept and gnashed her teeth, and the next, she begged, pleaded, offered her own body in exchange for freedom. Wesley had been, within ten minutes of contact with her, threatened, accused of rape, solicited, and bribed.<p>

It was clear, however, that her behavior didn't have the finesse of a professional, for she fumbled, ultimately dropping personalities too quickly for any of them to stick. She knew she was trapped and acted accordingly; she regarded nothing too desperate to try. Eventually, excuses ran dry, leaving the woman fidgeting in an enclosed room on one of Wolfram and Hart's lower floors. While not a police station, the need for holding unsavory people (or otherwise) presented itself to the firm often enough to merit nearly half a floor of cells or cell-like rooms. This surprised neither Gunn nor Wesley in the least.

"It's some fascinating video footage." Wesley lifted the disc to prove its possession. He had watched mere moments of its contents, if only to confirm his suspicions. It was, as he expected, torture snuff of a vulgar variety. He wondered how long it would take to clear the image of the couple skinning the arms of a twitching, bound vampire from his brain.

Mira scoffed at the veiled threat and rolled her mascara-laden eyes. "They ain't human."

"Have fun explaining that to the cops," Gunn said.

She paused, knowing he had a point. She glanced for the door as if sizing up an escape attempt. When that option seemed lost, she darted her eyes about the room with another surge of desperation in her expression. "He hits me," she implored, referring to her boyfriend. Her hands smoothed about her wrists, neck, and arms, soothing unseen marks. "He makes me do it."

Gunn, no stranger to couples with domestic abuse problems, turned in surprise.

But Wesley leaned over the table and dismissed coldly, "No he doesn't."

Apparently unwilling to fight for her story, Mira frowned and crossed her legs dejectedly.

"I spoke with your boyfriend. He has an anger problem, to be sure, but his contention is with other men, not you." He gave her a dry, knowing smile as he took his seat. "This was all your idea, now wasn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. He- -"

"He's an insecure beta male with a stutter. He has no self-esteem to speak of. But you? You approach vampires by yourself- -seduce them with the intention of killing them. That requires some impressive moxie."

She cocked her head at him, wearing a confident sneer. "I hunt vampires. I _help _people."

"Technically, you do it for fun, but we're not here to analyze your motivations, miss Mira." He reproduced the photograph- -one she had taken of Spike. "Start from the beginning."

For a few seconds, she acted as if she didn't recognize the image, so she chewed on a wad of gum, drummed her fingers on the table, and wrinkled her mouth with concentration. An exaggerated breath, then a disbelieving, "Really? Is he important or something?"

"Miss Mira."

She sighed. "There were men. They were saying to people, 'if you ever find a vampire that belongs to Wolfram & Hart, call us. We will pay you for it.'"

"And that's why you targeted him?"

She leaned in. "I didn't 'target' anybody, okay? It wasn't until... Well, Diego started slapping him around, you know? And I quick dug through the guy's wallet, just to see..."

Wesley blinked from realization. His intuition had rung true. "His security pass."

"Yeah," she hastily affirmed. "That Wolfram & Hart card. Then I knew. So I called them. The men came; they paid us, and then they hung around for a while- -it was like a party. They took more pictures. They cut his hair and they paid me to buy those flowers, send those photos."

"Where are they?"

"Those guys? How am I supposed to know? I told you. They came; they left. All we got is a number."

* * *

><p>In the other room with Diego, Angel did not encounter the same wall.<br>Had he, of course, he would have plowed right through it; he no longer had the patience for excuses. A desperation underlined his ferocity.

It was unfortunate that Diego, ultimately, had to be the target of this hunger. He was a shrimp of a man- -scrawny, really. His cheeks were lean and his eyes lightly crossed, so he never appeared to be looking directly at anyone, and he whirled his gaze about like a flummoxed bird. Whenever he had the courage to speak- -which wasn't often- -he couldn't get a word out without tripping over his syllables, each flavored gently with an accent far rougher than his partner's.

If he weren't sitting there wearing Spike's duster, Angel would have pegged him as an oblivious innocent in all of this.

Angel waited for several more moments. As it was, he leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed, his look critical. He let the man sweat.

Then he cleared his throat.

Diego jumped, slamming his thigh against the edge of the table as a result. He cringed and fell, pale and silent, back into his seat.

"Get up," Angel said.

"Y-yes sir," Diego murmured hurriedly. "Sorry sir."

Angel's stare was wide and terrifyingly blank. "Give me that coat," he demanded, shuffling over and standing tall over the table.

Diego, in a slight panic at the approach of a clearly mad vampire, removed the coat and placed it on the table.

"Good. You follow instructions."

Angel must have sensed an oncoming end, because as he reached into his pocket and withdrew Diego's confiscated cell phone, the intensity in his face faded, replaced with a strange serenity. He held the device in his hand, fingers sliding over its smooth contours. He nearly sank into thought, never to resurface.

Then, without warning, Angel coughed, shook himself back into life, and placed the phone on the table. "Now," he began, unnecessary breaths filling his lungs, "you're going to call your contact with Radoslav."

Diego glanced nervously at the phone resting on the table. His lower lip quivered. "W-why would I do that?"

"Because," Angel said, voice drifting so low that he had to lean in to shiver and hear, "lucky guy you are, you just found yourself another vampire."


	7. Book 1, Chapter 6: The Free Country

**Book 1 - Chapter 6: The Free Country**

(_A/N: Oh man, this was a classic delay for me. Thanks to those who pm'd me encouragement... And I promise another chapter isn't far behind-making book 1 nearly done! Please enjoy._)

* * *

><p>It was a muggy evening; in fact, when compared to evenings as far back as the middle-aged businessman could remember, this evening was extraordinarily so. Car windows and glasses fogged up in exposure. It was sauna muggy. Jungle muggy.<p>

Sitting behind his steering wheel, he swallowed and fiddled with his tie.

_Probably shouldn't have gone with the three-piece. It's not like I'm meeting the friggin' Pope._

Ultimately, he hoped they would hurry. He worried about the surrounding area; it wasn't where he belonged, not with boys on the corner and passing men giving his Porsche an all-too-adoring look. These were the times he wished he would just take up his boss's advice and apply for a gun license. In the meanwhile, the thumbed the surface of a pepper spray container in his coat pocket.

_Yeah, like this'll do squat against one of these thugs. Might as well hand over the keys when they ask- -_

A flash of lights interrupted his self-defeating inner-monologue. He thanked the stars. He was _in_.

* * *

><p>He kept his car at a sluggish crawl, not even nudging against the gas, and guided the vehicle closer to the looming building ahead. Though he had yet to see its inside walls, he had the gut feeling it wouldn't be much better than its exterior: it was a crumbling structure, peeling with rust and graffiti paint, nestled in a dark corner of the city, where streetlights had long been smashed by bricks and no city signs remained. The only light shone from a van parked at the rear door. If it wasn't for the pulsing metropolitan horizon, the entire block would melt into the cover of night.<p>

Carefully- -carefully!- -he rolled his vehicle up to the side entrance and parked. He spotted a man on guard at the swing door and, relieved at his good fortune, hopped from his car, and moved with buzzing intention, finger nervously whittling at the bluetooth in his ear. As he came up to who he assumed was his guide, he whispered rehearsals under his breath. "_Just be clear. Relax. 'We agreed to three thousand. We agreed to three thousand.'_"

There were no more lights. At best, the moon flashed a slight wing of reflection, bringing the outlines into view. Hard, brittle angles. Jagged doors. Jagged walls. A man of equal harshness soon stood before him, gazing at him with uninterested, glossy eyes. He had sharp bones, gritty hair, and an expression more fitting for a teen stuck behind a cash register. He chewed on a piece of gum slowly. The businessman considered dozens of greetings before deciding to go with, "Hey."

The sallow gangster nodded but didn't reply.

"So... Where's the boss?"

"Out," the guard said with a sniff.

"Oh. Well." Crickets droned. A dog backed. Finally, he cleared his throat. "Let's get this show on the road, then."

* * *

><p>He had been warned these were not professionals. Backwoods, they said. Ghetto. But they were cheap, and that's what mattered, especially when one ran a fighting ring in which participants dropped by the day. Having vamps and demons fight to the death was a spectacle, to be sure, but not an easy one to maintain. You needed steady supply.<p>

Still, he didn't think it would be this bad.

As a former real estate buff, he cringed at the thought of all the work that would be required to make the place anything worthwhile. A few flickering lightbulbs lined the ceiling, hooked up to a generator elsewhere in the building, he supposed- -there was no way this place still had access to a grid. His curiosity (and paranoia) had led him to do some research on the building, and there he learned it used to serve as a meat packing plant in the 50's. This fact eventually surfaced into plain view when they exited the small, dilapidated hallway and crossed a main packing floor with rows of rusting chains and meat hooks. The heavy scent of mold filled the air.

The businessman fished his hand inside his pocket, passed the pepper spray, and found his bottle of hand sanitizer. "Quite the, uh, set-up you got here, huh?" He squirted the contents onto his hands and rubbed briskly. "I bet the rent's cheap."

Still no response. The businessman grimaced, eying and hopping over an old syringe. "Not much a talker, are you?"

"_This way_."

* * *

><p>The crate lay out ready for business, so after formalities were properly exchanged- -the businessman flashed his bills in a white envelope, they verbalized their price agreement- -the guard produced a crowbar.<p>

"All right." The buyer clapped his hands together. "Let's see it."

_Pop. Pop. Pop_. Corner by corner, the crate's cover loosened, until at last, he could see his product lying in a bed of wood shavings and plastic wrap. He was mentally prepared for wonder, for thrill, but as he came closer and began to pinch, prod, and poke at its limbs, he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He lifted its limp arm, examined the scrapes all along its fingers, the long, jagged burn scars down its neck. The vampire had no weight, no substance, and certainly no potential for entertainment.

"Now- -wait just a minute. You can't be serious." The guard stared at him, cool albeit uncomprehending. "I was told 'fighting ready'- -look- -_look_ at this, this is what you call 'fighting ready'?"

"Yes, yes, he fight, all the time, oh yes, he do this."

"It's a goddamn fucking mess- -and what're these, roach bites? What, did you keep it on the floor?"

"He is, eh, he will do the fighting, you feed him, he will do good."

"Okay... Okay, obviously, English is sort of a struggle for you, but 'fighting ready'! That means, _now,_ not in a week of stuffing it with blood! Jesus, is this how you run your business?"

"What we tell you, ah? We tell you- -this is discount, fire sale, everything must go. Three thousand. Go to others, you pay... Sometimes, ten thousand. Fifteen."

The guard's logic was sound, but it was more his menacing glare that caused the businessman to fluster and surrender. "All right! All right, I get it..." He puffed his cheeks, drummed his fingers with contemplation. "...Suppose he'll clean up nice. Fine. Pack it up. I wanna be home in time for supper."

* * *

><p>The first gunshot he heard, he passed off as a fluke in the brain. He was imagining things. Or maybe something fell- -the building was practically falling apart, wasn't it? <em>Bang. <em>_Clatter_. Had to be that.

But the second shot rang true, and the guard stood up in alarm. "What is it?" he asked anxiously. "Is it- -"

"Shut up."

His heart flew up inside his throat, causing him to gag and seize. He shoved himself against the far wall, as if hoping to shrink into hiding. _Pop. Pop. Popopop. _Yells filled the walls; the guard pulled the door shut and rifled through his coat for his weapon.

Blood drained from the businessman's face. "Oh god, it's police, isn't it?"

"Police not problem," the guard rebuffed.

"Right! I'm in an abandoned building with 'thug life' and a dead body! No problem at _all_!"

The guard stood stationary, fingers taut against his weapon, his eyes swimming with focus.

"Please, god, tell me you have an escape plan!"

The guard didn't speak; he only walked out the door. With no other recourse, the businessman took up a nearby folding chair and sat in it. He awaited patiently for the guard's return, hoping he would come with arms and a plan. Instead, not thirty seconds later, the guard burst in, gasoline canister in hand. Before the businessman had any chance to yelp out an objection, he stormed over to the merchandise and began to drench it.

"What- -hey!" He reached out, grabbing the gangster's arm. "What are you doing? I paid for that!"

But the gangster glimpsed back at him with a ferocious expression. He set down the gasoline and started to bring out his lighter. "Like we say. _Fire sale_."

* * *

><p><em>Bang. <em>Angel flinched. _Bang! _He flinched again.

"...I didn't think we'd have a body-count." He pushed his feet together, wishing Wesley could be in the same van. However, after some minor discussion, they decided it made more sense to spread out, so for the time being, Angel tried to make conversation with a suited commander sitting across from him. Said man gave him a querying glance. "It _sounds_ really bad," Angel confessed.

"Nah." The commander, a bland, ex-military type who had spent most of the ride chewing on a cigar, grunted in a dismissive way. "Sounds panicked. Punks like these, they get scared, and _pow-pow-pow_, they scatter-shot. Probably not even aiming at anything. Just trying to scare ya."

"You think?"

"_Positive_."

The gunshots sputtered on at random intervals. Angel, drumming the tips of his boots on the floor, finally lost his patience and started to stand. "Maybe we should- -"

"_Sit. _Let my boys do their work."

Of all the times he had to abandon his nature, this had to be the most difficult. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to leap to his feet and charge in, knocking heads and breaking arms. But outsourcing was the new rule. Letting others do the dirty work- -the work he _used_ to be solely in charge of. Feeling cold and diplomatic, he folded his hands in his lap, soon taking to twiddling his thumbs.

The commander, sensing his nerves, brought his transmitter to his mouth. "How's it going in there?"

"_As planned,_" was the no-nonsense reply.

With no cause to worry, the commander dropped the transmitter, snorted, and fixed his hands to his weapon. As a casual aside, he mumbled, "Just hope this is all worth it."

Angel, upon hearing it, felt a twinge at the back of his neck. He stiffened, eyes cemented on the commander's face. "...What?"

The man, baffled by the sudden offense, explained, "Well... It's an awful lot of manpower- -"

"_I_ decide what's worth it."

Though the two exchanged menacing glances, Angel took it far more seriously than the other. The commander had neither the patience nor the justification needed to drag out any butting-of-heads, so he broke off with a placid, "Yes, _sir._"

* * *

><p>When the news came over the transmission that they found a vampire, Angel could not be restrained. He didn't even turn to see Wesley and Gunn approaching from another direction.<p>

Though littered with shell casings and bullet holes, the interior had greatly quieted to a hateful murmur, with the many cartel guards lined up along what used to be a draining floor for slaughtered cattle. They wore solemn and determined faces, with none as much as opening their mouth to barb the armed Wolfram and Hart security forces who threatened them in place.

A few men led Angel on, motioning for an old meat locker where they claimed to have found a vampire about to be sold. He roared mantras in his head to keep him calm, focused. _Okay okay okay okay here we go okay._

They yanked the locker open.

Inside, there were several men, overwhelmingly ones under his hire. After darting his eyes about, he discerned the criminals: a gangster chewing the inside of his cheek in the middle of the room, reeking of oils, and a laughably out of place businessman cowering in the corner. No one spoke.

He could see a box in the corner. _The_ box. He didn't have the nerve to move toward it, so he turned his ire on the sallow gangster who now dared to stare him in the eyes.

He stepped forward. "Where's Radoslav?"

The gangster seemed surprised by the question, and chewed a little longer before answering. "Not here."

Though he wished otherwise, he doubted the man was lying. He frowned and sniffed. He smelled gasoline. One of his armed men preempted his question by waving to the gangster.

"This one here was getting ready to light up the box."

"Yeah?" Angel made use of his ample size difference and stood over him. "And why were you going to do that?"

Intimidation didn't work; the man shrugged. "It is free country."

The businessman in the corner, emboldened by the other's retort, yelped in support,"Yeah! That's right! Free country, pal!"

Clearly, the squawking businessman had no idea that the situation currently at hand was much graver than he imagined; if Angel wasn't as conscientious as he was, and if he were not under the rapt attention of others, he might have snapped the man in two. He happily compromised by sidestepping the gangster and slamming the pitiful suited man against the wall.

"Ahh! Ow!" The man's courage immediately dissolved into pathetic blubbering. "I don't know anything! I swear to god! I'm just- -"

"- -A buyer." Angel began to apply pressure to the man's wrist. "What for?"

"That's none of- -_ya-how_! Jesus! Okay, okay, easy... Look, I'm a supply manager, that's all- -small fighting ring downtown, you know?"

"I'm familiar with them. Not much of a fan."

"What, you some kind of kooky bug rights activist?- -_Ow_!"

Wesley walked in, only somewhat inadvertently interrupting Angel's manhandling. "Angel, is he here?"

"'Angel'?" The businessman squirmed and forced a look over his shoulder. "Wait, you're- -hey, you're from Wolfram & Hart, right? And you're a- -"

"Over there," Angel said, ignoring the man's blather. He pointed uncertainly at the drenched box. His sense of smell was too clogged with gasoline to be any more sure.

"- -Hey, look," the man started to grovel, "about the whole 'bug' thing- -it's just the way people around me talk, it's nothing personal. I've got nothing against vampi- -"

Angel and Wesley simultaneously told him to shut up.

The Englishmen turned his attention back to the box... Pried open the lid... Angel didn't look, he only cemented his gaze on the opposite wall, his ears open, his mind shallow...

Then came a sigh. "It's not him."

Rather unintuitively, Angel felt relieved. He released the man, sliding him down the wall and back safe on the ground. Of course, this meant Spike hadn't been found yet, and that was nothing to celebrate, but Angel couldn't salve the doubt growing in him. He wasn't ready. _Not yet._

* * *

><p>Gunn watched them work with unabashed admiration. "Efficient dudes, give 'em that."<p>

"Yes," Wesley drawled, "how ever did we get along without them?"

Gunn, unable to tell if Wesley was being sarcastic, stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. "Makes a guy feel... Unnecessary, though. Came here thinking I'd be knocking down doors." He spied a swarm of armed men breaking into a locked room across the way.

"Well, best not to interrupt them." With his hands in his pockets and his eyes trailing along meat-hooks, Wesley buried his anxiety with a look of disinterest. He couldn't seem to say anything but banalities, which were meant to create an air of ease, but only made Gunn increasingly edgy. Wesley side-stepping conversation never meant anything good.

Finally, Angel came near, equally befuddled. "They haven't said anything?"

They shook their heads.

"So, I guess we just..." Angel awaited either of their replies, and when he received none, he coughed awkwardly and patted down his coat. "Stand here. Right." In a row, they stood silently, hardly acknowledging one another, listening to the drum of boots and clang of opened doors. The entire building thumped, bumped, and clattered. Angel unconsciously tapped his foot to the rhythm of the raid. "Hey," he said, "remember when we stormed in places by ourselves, risked life and limb..."

"Indeed."

Gunn glanced up at the ceiling with a lopsided smile. "Good times."

"They weren't _all _good times," Wesley gently disagreed.

"Naw, but... Least they weren't boring."

Their nervous, nostalgic chatter continued for a few minutes, even daring to erupt into a laugh or two. With the end of the search so close, they stirred with newfound confidence, as if Spike had already been found and all was now well. The nightmare had ended. They allowed themselves time to feel normal again.

Just when Angel thought they ought to go out for some relaxation once Spike was safe at Wolfram & Hart, an armed man approached.

"Perimeter's clear, sir," the man told him. "We've searched the premises."

"Oh. Well? Where is he?"

The man hesitated, looking over his shoulder. Then, knowing he had to be the bearer of this news, he admitted, "There aren't any other vampires, sir."

* * *

><p><em>No.<em>

Angel lifted his eyes to the foggy, broken glass panels lining the ceiling. Faint shades of moonlight poured through, silver streams of light staining the sharp, rusty angles of the mesh, the iron, the hooks, the crates. Everything stunk of pathogens and waste.

_No, no, no!_ His chest ached. His head whirled. His feet moved without command, staggering him in an empty direction.

"Maybe they already- -" Gunn began.

"Then where are the ashes?" Wesley's voice, far away, in a different lane of drainage floors. "It's an awful lot of material to burn on short notice."

"Or they moved them. Or maybe there are other places where they stash 'em. Or he's already been..." Gunn, momentarily forgetting just how keen Angel's hearing could be, leaned in and whispered, "_Bought_."

A roach scuttled by Angel's foot. He tried to stomp on it with the tip of his boot, but he easily missed. His nostrils flared and he ranted angrily to himself. "It doesn't make _sense._"

Wesley turned to the officer. "Did you see any vehicles, trucks, vans?"

"Only the one, and it's empty."

Angel continued to rant as if no one else were speaking. "- -Why all the guards? If there's nothing here, then why all the..."

The scent of dry hog and cattle blood flooded his olfactory senses. He suddenly remembered how long it had been since he'd eaten a proper meal. He was too hungry to think. From afar, he heard Wesley and Gunn conferring again, discussing calling Fred and telling her it was a bust... Nothing, they had nothing, the one good lead they had and it lead to- -

"Hello!"

A whiny voice interrupted his brooding. Angel brought himself around to find it was the man from the meat locker, Mr. Receding Hairline himself, escorted by a guard.

"Excuse me? Um, am I free to, uh, _go_?" The businessman flashed a nervous smile and laughed to compensate for his nerves. "It's just, you know, I don't know anything, and the missus has a roast in the oven..."

Angel gazed at him, eyes as blank as a man in shell-shock. "Sorry to inconvenience your evening."

"Oh, hey, no problem; you have your business, I've got mine; so I'll just..."

"...No one leaves until somebody talks."

The businessman clutched his coat. "Are... Are you serious? Jesus; you know they're never going to talk, right? They're trained for this.

" "Then I guess you're all coming with us for additional persuasion."

"What? What are you gonna do, stick us in Gitmo?"

Angel motioned lazily to an armed guard, who took hold of the man and started to drag him back to the wall. He howled hysterically. "I can't believe this! You're crazy! I know my rights! I've read the Constitution!"

* * *

><p>Some unconstitutional and very slow amount of time followed. The forces must have milled around for another hour, repeating their search with special care, arguing with Angel, and then, in turn, trying to argue with the cartel guards, who remained silent no matter the insult or threat they hurled. Angel, in his shock, seemed unable to let go; he had buried his talons deep, and to release the catch now felt heretical.<p>

Missing something. They were missing something. The feeling lumped in his stomach with such force that nothing they said mattered. So they waited. For what- -prophecy, miracle, deus ex machina- - they didn't know.

The businessman had quieted since being forced up against the wall between two yokels he didn't bother looking at. After tiring of standing around, he gave in to his weak knees and sat on the floor, a desperate act considering he knew what it would do to his suit. He figured he would be stuck here for a while, so he may as well get comfy.

He was a simple man, in the end: he had never thought of himself as great or especially noteworthy, though there were days in his youth when he imagined he would someday be so. His name, life story, occupation, and interests were so banal that they deserve no description even here; perhaps that is why he didn't expect to be heard. He was no easy plot device, no god in the machine.

Spotting Gunn idling nearby, and having observed him in close interaction with the head honcho, the businessman nonetheless took a stab at fate. "How much longer you gonna keep us here?"

Gunn looked at him, and seeing his pathetic demeanor, withheld the abuse Angel might have heaped on him. He politely responded, "Not sure."

The businessman sighed and threw a pebble, watching it bounce along the floor. "You sure you checked everywhere? Maybe you overlooked something."

"Kind of doubt that."

For a few seconds, the businessman gestured in the empty air, as if visualizing. "Every room? Every floor?"

"Every- -" Gunn paused. "Floor?"

The doubt in Gunn's voice was more than enough; the businessman's eyes grew wide, and he scrambled to his feet, coughing every inch of the way up. "You- -_kaff!_- -do know it's two st- -_kaff!_- -stories, right? Tell me you know!"

"Uh..."

"The basement, man! You've checked it!"

Though Gunn was not the authority on where they had looked, he couldn't help but wonder; he certainly hadn't heard any mention of it.

The man dusted off his coat. "Didn't you people check the floorplans? It's a little buried in archives, but even I- -"

He didn't need to speak any longer. Gunn flagged a gunman.

* * *

><p>Not much later, when Angel arrived on the scene, he came to find a small gaggle of men, including some armed guards and his two friends, standing astride the businessman, who was busy pointing out for them details and in the midst of an impromptu sermon on the value of architectural design. They followed his words and instruction with befuddled, strained interest; he, on the other hand, appeared to be enjoying himself immensely.<p>

"It's a nice one. Built in 1948, designed by a German fellow by the name of _Immanuel Fenstermacher_; you can tell because those were the days of all substance, minimal style; and yet, he didn't go for the boxy look, oh, no, this, kids, is the marriage of beauty and function... See those windows in the ceiling? Really into natural lighting; he wrote books on the stuff."

The commander, standing outside the circle, was not so enthralled, so Angel went to him, as he would rather not interrupt the lecture. "What the hell is he going on about?"

"He knows the floorplan," the commander said plainly. He didn't sound concerned. "Going on about the basement..."

"_Basement_? What basement? Haven't we- -?"

But the commander lifted a solitary hand to calm him. "We _know_ there's a basement. We're not idiots. There are delivery chutes and some stairs. But the only stairs have been caved in for a while; no way anyone can get down there."

The businessman overheard and effortlessly joined in. "Building this old? Yeah, sure. Parts of it are going to be flooded, filled in..." He drummed his fingers thoughtfully at his chin, then snapped them. "Hey! The e_levator_!"

They all looked at him, utterly stupefied.

Knowing he had them hooked, he grinned. "I tell you where it is, and you let me go. Deal?"

He didn't know it, but he could have gotten much more than that- -his presence was of no value to them anyhow- -but it was no matter. Before Angel's brain had time to process what had been said, he nonetheless blurted out a hurried, "Yes, whatever, just- -_go!_"

Angel, Gunn, Wesley, and a discordant herd of gunmen swarmed behind the businessman, who soaked in the attention without shame. There was something strangely amicable in the man now that he had been given a task to accomplish: grudges were thrown aside, all crimes forgotten. He strutted, skipped, waltzed, acting like a kid who finally got picked for the winning team. As he led them forward, he even tried to push a business card into Angel's hand, and when he fumbled and it fell to the floor, he didn't seem to care.

"I tell ya! You're gonna be glad you stuck with me- -all right!"

He stopped. A domino effect had men behind him knocking into one another.

"Here we are!"

Their lights turned to the half-hallway, but after several streams of illumination, they found no elevator, but a hefty-looking industrial set of shelves. For a moment, the collective murmured their doubts; Angel and the others began to think they had been taken in.

Gunn asked, "Are you, uh, sure?"

"Absolutely sure!" The businessman waved to the commander. "If you would kindly shine your light this way..."

Light shone over the dusty floor: drag marks. Fresh. And directly leading to the crowded shelves.

"Thought they were being tricky. Hey, pal! Gimme a hand with this..."

Though it took several men to push the shelves aside, and loose items tumbled to the floor, resulting in smashed glass and putrid smells, the businessman's memory ultimately served him perfectly. The shelves hid a rusty shutter door which, after considerable tugging, twisting, and frustrated kicking, sprang open to reveal an old, rickety, heart-attack-inducing elevator.

No one volunteered too quickly to pry it open, so Angel, in a fit of maddening impatience, shoved every nearby body aside. He didn't even pause to acknowledge the man who had helped them discover this new avenue; he grappled with the iron-caste gates, pulled each of them back, and began to search for the control panel.  
>The commander eyed it skeptically from afar. "This thing even have power?"<p>

"Only one way to find out," Angel said. He entered the cage and awaited the others.

Uselessly, the commander informed him, "Sir, we have to clear it first."

But Angel had already decided. He would not be moved.

The commander's shoulders sank, but he made no further objection. "All right. Let's go."

Gunn and Wesley did try to squeeze through, as they felt an obligation to stand with Angel, but the commander blocked them with his arm.

"You stay," he gruffly ordered, pointing to the stubborn vampire. "At least _he_ won't die from being plugged with a few bullets."

He had a point. They stepped back- -though Wesley shared a brief, pained glance with Angel.

Glad for this victory, small though it was, the commander silently directed his team into the cage. It was when the first grate door shut that the businessman pounded on its exterior.

"Wait! Wait wait wait! I can go, right? I can go!"

Angel answered by hitting the switch. The car gasped and shuddered, threatening to rust to a halt, but the engine sputtered awake and it started to sink. Satisfied, Angel looked to the others, watching their faces drift up from his view. "Get him out of here."

"Yes! God! Thank you!" He turned, about to run without another word, but he stalled just long enough to stare down the shaft, hollering at them with unearned enthusiasm. "Best of luck! You're beautiful people- -I mean it!"

The man blew kisses as they disappeared into blackness.

* * *

><p>It was impossible not to think about graves.<p>

The thought was apt, of course- -these were columns of old cement, the remnants of bones, the gravel and dirt burying the walls. The entire lower floor teetered on the brink of being swallowed; rainwater leaked from the ceiling like pus from open sores, and the ground festered with insects. The earth had worked hard to reclaim it into its belly, but the work of human hands was evident. Wooden planks and iron bars propped the places that looked ready to collapse. Paths were swept out of the muck and littered with impressions of boots.

Down a narrow hall, they could see where the floor had caved in, blocking off access to any doorways not immediately in their view. This, at least, meant the search would be quicker.

There were only a few rooms. One was where the corpses were kept neat and asleep in their coffins. In another room, Angel supposed, the bodies were prepared, stripped, drained. Given whatever treatment they needed to be eligible for sale.

The men with guns moved out, branching into every door. Angel, on the other hand, could only manage to step out of the car and no further. He stood still, listened to the gate shut, and watched, listened.

When they found the boxes- -and there were so many, at least a dozen, some of them having been stored for weeks, crates rotting in pools of stagnant water- -they called him into the room, waving their hands and pointing and...

He focused on blinking his eyes, because he heard so little, understood so little. They cracked open boxes and bodies spilled out. They had been wrapped tightly in plastic wrap and packed in with wood shavings, so the scent of stale blood mixed with a tint of pine. Like someone trying to cover up a murder with cleaning supplies. The bodies slid out, one by one, onto the floor.

The commander, seeing Angel was in a state, belted out orders. "Male! Caucasian, blonde and blue-eyed! Scar at the right eyebrow! That's _your_right." The commander snapped open his switchblade. "Once we get a positive ID, we dust the rest. Start looking."

Angel had been on fishing boats before, and seeing the men flash their lights, chatter, stoop over bodies all conjured up these memories. The way they took knives to flesh, their arms moving up and down in a sawing motion, as if busy filleting. They scooped open the tight plastic, uncovered faces, sorted the female from the male (the females were dragged to the side, immediately segregated), stopped just short of comparing fins, espousing opinions on the taste of different species, talking about spawning periods and the size of the catch. Angel couldn't remember if he was remembering or imagining or mixing the two, so still, he moved nary an inch, allowing them to do their dirty work.

The elevator whirred outside, bringing the others. Just in time. A man cried out, claiming he found a match, and after a moment of confusion, they sought Angel again. One foot after the other. He stepped over several bodies, their faces now naked and exposed to his vision: thin, blue, glossy-eyed, rims of their eyes shimmering with mites. Eventually he reached the semi-circle of men tugging on one of them, wrenching open the plastic even further.

"Looks about right."

They leaned back, sticking blinding lights into the body's face and proudly looking to Angel for approval.

"Is this him?"

Angel couldn't pry his eyes from the other side of the room.

"Sir, would you look and confirm this is him?" the man repeated impatiently.

...He wanted to say something. He wanted to look down on the knotted, pale, plastic and see unmoving ugliness.

But Wesley had to approach in his stead, pressing a hand to Angel's shoulder, glancing past him, and nodding. "...That's him."

* * *

><p>They moved forward, a funeral procession in slow and agonizing steps; the gangsters lined the walls like teeth in jawbone, the body wheeled forward, and the friends followed. Behind, from the hollow space in the elevator shaft, came echoes of things dissolving into dust.<p> 


	8. Book 1, Chapter 7: Savior

**Book 1 - Chapter 7: The Savior**

A whistle rang through the medical wing.

"_Somebody _went to town on this one."

* * *

><p>Miss Salad (and that's pronounced "<em>sih-lawd<em>," as she had to crossly inform many a confused person reading her name- -"do I look like a bowl of lettuce to you?") did not have a way with people. Not living ones, anyhow. Living people were complicated and annoying and, let's be honest, can get awful cranky when you fish around in their orifices. They have a sense of personal space she never got around to learning.

Naturally, then, she got along famously with vampires and corpses.

It was probably why on the rare occasion that a vampire employee needed to be hospitalized, they were shuffled off to her wing. Not that vampires were especially troublesome to treat- -but you could never tell when they felt the urge to spring from their bed and drain you.

Salad pulled back her hair and pulled on some gloves.

"Hey- -no wonder everyone's in a tizzy," said her assistant, a pimply, awkward kid who made the funniest noise whenever she kicked him in the shin. Already donning his traditional mask and goggles, he stood at the table, ogling the body with a stupefied expression. "I've seen him. I've seen him around, he's, like, some kind of big shot- -"

Trying not to sound bored, she approached him from behind and slapped him on the back. "And you get to see all of him! Congratulations. Well, let's have a look-see."

She could tell he was good-looking aside from looking dead. _Well, he __**is**__ dead. But I'm sure on his better days, he doesn't look it._ The convenient thing about vampires, of course, was this "dead-ness." When treating them for injuries, there were no infections to ward off, no bleeding- -internal or external- -to stymie. For most vampires, all you had to do was stick an IV full of blood in their arm and they'd be good as new in a day or two. Like recharging your cell phone. She knew, though, she would have to do more this time.

"First things first, let's clean him off. He reeks."

* * *

><p>Wherever water slid, its coloration turned to a snotty, earthy green. Streams of pink bloomed like rosebuds wherever wounds bubbled into full bleed; the limbs underneath remained pale, thin, leathery, limp and light as a marionette's. Cleaning him off seemed much like the process of undressing: there was so much dirt, so many scabs to scratched off.<p>

As the skin underneath started to breathe again, they found the wrinkled signs of burns, white trails of dragged fingernails, purple blotches where roaches had testily nipped him. Patches and lines laced his flesh in savage decoration.

With some scrubbing and spraying, the stench of old blood and garbage faded down the drain. He started to look- -and smell- -human again.

Salad surveyed their work proudly a moment while her assistant moved across the room for a break. The body, slumped in the metal tub, now looked more clammy than rotten- -still not a picture of health, but preferable to his previous condition.

Thinking she would at least give him some minor grooming (his hair was a grimy, sticky mess), she briskly rinsed his locks clean. As she gave his hair a quick comb to suss out any knots, filth, or fleas, she noticed his eyes had opened. He looked up at her- -well, perhaps not _at_her, but certainly in her direction- -and blinked dimly.

Lights on; no one home.

"Hi there," she quipped conversationally, smiling at him. She had no qualms about speaking with the dead; all throughout medical school, she formed many a special bond with donated bodies. You learned how to love them, unrequited though such feelings may be. "You're pretty cute for a dead guy."

He blinked again.

"Hope you're not shy; we're going to have a little photo shoot. Get you filed and squared away."

She set down her comb, but not before noticing a large circlet at his lower back of the neck. She pushed him gently forward, eyed it carefully. It was a bite. A large one- -human. After prodding the wound gently and noting its bruised discoloration, she recognized the strange coincidence. Vampire. _Biting_.  
>Someone from behind cleared their throat.<p>

"Yeah?"

"Uh, Miss Salad..."

She still didn't look up. "_What_?"

"Someone's..."

She turned around. At the doorway, a thin, meek looking man with dusty brown hair and chilly eyes- -a steady, precise, staunch character with a heavy expression, as if shouldering the world.

He made a concerted effort not to look too closely at the tub. "Hello."

The two staff glanced at one another; they recognized the man from upstairs, though neither could put a name to the face. Salad decided to be the proper adult and greet him. She lifted her goggles. "Hi there."

For whatever reason, he gave her a demure nod before looking to her assistant once more. "Nathan, is it? Angel's asked to speak with you." He immediately read the panic overcoming the young man's expression. He sighed. "You're not in any sort of trouble, I assure you."

Her assistant left, and with only the two of them remaining, the man deigned to look to her, his hands behind his back and his face lightened only slightly. His eyes jumped to the body then back again. "How is he?" There was a touch of concern in his voice that could not be from a pure bureaucrat.

"He's not going to die- -but that's a given." She straightened her goggles in his direction. "Who are you?"

"Wyndham-Pryce. I just spoke with Angel, and I'll be supervising all of Spike's treatments."

Salad frowned. "Are you a physician?"

"No, I'm not."

"Are you a lawyer?"

He replied patiently, "No, I'm not a lawyer, either."

"But you _are _here to keep an eye on me, aren't you?"

"Don't take it personally." He paused. "Or do, if you wish."

"You're one of them, right? Head of... Something."

"Research," he obliged. He seemed both surprised and slighted that she didn't know of him.

"An upstairs guy. In Angel's circle, huh."

"Yes."

"And you're thinking I'm selling."

Wesley gazed at her with growing horror.

"You think I'm going to collect whatever grisly details I find, tie them in a bow, and sell to the highest bidder. I'm not stupid. There are people who hate you- -all of you."

He steeled himself, spoke through gritted teeth. "What's your price?"

In response, she guffawed, fixing her gloves again and returning to the body. "Money's so boring," she lamented. "I like my job and I'd prefer to keep it. How's that for an answer?"

Wesley neither expected nor understood this answer. "How do we... How can we trust you?"

"I'll sign an agreement if it'll make you feel better, but just so we're clear: I have all the money I want, and I have a job I like. I'm not_ interested _in selling. And in this place, that's _better_ than any pinkie swear or blood oath." Her words were final in tone- -statements she did not intend to change under either coercion or bribery. She returned to Spike's body and asked, "You going to help me lift him, or what?"

* * *

><p>Fred shifted her shoulders, felt a stiffness forming in her neck. In her slumbering thoughts, she wondered why her bed had grown so nonconforming to her body.<p>

She frowned and peeled open her eyes.

Blank, nondescript walls greeted her. Ones not belonging to any angle of her apartment.

As she crawled sluggishly out of her sleep, images, sounds, smells returned to her. The details drifted before her in a soup-like array until her brain snapped them together. Bright, fluorescent lights. Clean, slick floor. The buzz of nurses and medical trolleys.

_The hospital wing_. She remembered.

Fred glanced down to identify the lumpy surface onto which she had been resting her head, and found Gunn's shoulder.

She shot upward in embarrassment. "Uh!"

Fortunately for her, Gunn had similarly nodded off, and at the sound of her surprise, he shook, lifted his head. His eyes were swollen and groggy. "Uh?"

They both looked blearily about themselves, but they were more or less seated alone in the hallway, aside from a stray wandering footstep from a janitor or assistant. The chairs they sat in cramped their backs, and the lights blinded them, but the inclination to steal a chance for rest had been too tempting, apparently, to let the atmosphere get in the way of some shut-eye.

Fred quickly wiped away evidence of drool from her mouth, praying he hadn't noticed.

"Man. Really conked out, huh?" Gunn said aloud, rubbing his eyes.

"What time is it?"

He glanced at his watch and reported, "Five-thirty."

"Work starts in a few hours."

He slumped, at first giving her an 'are-you-serious?' look. Then he had no choice but to morosely laugh. "Yeah, I guess."

It was quiet again. They straightened their postures, searched fruitlessly for a more comfortable position, then resigned to the pain of waiting. Gunn's thoughts drifted elsewhere- -to memories of Fred stepping out of the ambulance, face pale. He recalled asking her how he looked and she shook her head. She hadn't looked. Hadn't mustered the willpower to watch them peel him from his cocoon. _The stench was..._

"Wonder what's keeping Angel," he said.

Fred shrugged.

"What's with his change of heart, anyway? One day he's twiddling his thumbs in his room, and now it's like- -" He searched out the right way to explain it succinctly. "I tried to get up close- -to see Spike, you know? To tell myself it was over. Took two steps toward him and Angel _freaked._I thought the guy was gonna give himself a heart attack."

"You're... Reading too much into it."

"...And then he didn't want you in the ambulance with Spike. What was _that _about?"

Fred started to say, "I think..."

"- -They're circling their wagons."

Fred frowned again, more deeply than before.

"You didn't notice?"

"I did," she replied carefully. "I just... I think it's personal. For Angel. And Wesley's always been..."

"Maybe. But I can't throw this feeling, and it's driving me nuts. Why the hush campaign? There really something so bad that- -?"

From down the hall, they heard a door open. A second of breathless anticipation later, their wait came to fruition: Wesley stepped out, turned his head to search them out, and started toward them.

They sprang to their feet, shaking the sleep from their limbs.

As Wesley came closer, he looked sober but still forced a smile at the edge of his mouth. "We can see him now," he told them.

Fred stood and Gunn glanced over his shoulder. "Angel...?"

"He'll be here shortly," Wesley assured him. "Come on."

They followed, then, just outside the room, Wesley took a second to warn them.

"I..." He paused to think. "I don't want you to be startled, but you should know: his condition is... well- -" He put his hand to the doorknob. "It's his appearance that you'll notice. It's not as bad as it looks, but his appearance..." As he knuckled the door open, his words fumbled into one another, redundancies upon redundancies. Resigned to it now, he stopped himself from saying any more and had them enter.

* * *

><p>Though they weren't sure what to expect, both Fred and Gunn had assumed some level of consciousness in meeting their friend. Certainly, they knew his condition would be bad, and he would be too weak to manage a number of things, but in their expectations, they both clearly envisioned Spike looking at them, recognizing them, blinking to signal his happiness at seeing comrades.<p>

But, true to Wesley's warning, he looked worse than either of them had imagined.

The face, puffed and swollen black and blue, practically mutilated. Underneath the rose-colored lids were empty, small slits of milky eyes. If they were challenged to, they might not have been able to identify him: it was other features that called him out, the telltale scar at his eyebrow, the distinctive white-blonde hair.

_They didn't just tie him up in a basement,_ Gunn thought. _They really put the hurt to him. _He wondered if this was a connection to his other concerns. Perhaps this had to do with what they were 'circling'.

But if there were anything to derive from it, they didn't have the time to do so.

"Hi, guys!" came a hysterically cheerful voice from behind them, bullying its way past their shoulders. The collective leaped from shock, collecting their nerves enough to search out the voice's source. A small, slender Indian woman in a lab coat raced into the room, reaching the side of Spike's bed. She had Fred's stature but none of her demeanor- -she had a fanatic energy in her wide, brown eyes as she smilingly gawked them. "I'm doctor Salad- -how is everyone?"

Gunn and Wesley stood stiffly; Fred pressed her fingers over her lips.

"...Great!" To show that she was a professional of good standing, she flipped through papers attached to a clipboard, though she neglected to actually look at the pages. "Good news first! Internal organs look good, nothing missing..."

"He's a vamp," Gunn noted. "He doesn't really _need _them, does he?"

She put her hands on her hips. "You try having any fun at happy hour without a liver, buster. Vampires might not die with a missing organ or two, but we don't want any complications. Anyway, he gave me a little scare, but it turned out to be nothing."

"'Scare'?"

"Oh, well, I saw a scar, so I knew he'd been opened." Their faces fell. "Yeah, I know. Right down the center- -shhlk_! _But, like I said, nothing was taken out." She paused, read their apprehension, and misunderstood it. "Or put in," she added to reassure them. "Don't worry, I checked. Sometimes they drug mule these suckers, and it's balloons of cocaine jammed in every little- -"

When it became apparent that the others were slack-jawed with horror and thus incapable of responding, Wesley spoke up. "Do you _mind_?"

She stopped, surprised then apologetic. "Oh, sorry, am I being too- -?"

They said nothing.

"Never mind. Anyway, bad news: in my experience, these 'states' can take a while. Metabolism's real slow, so it won't take much plasma to bring his iron levels back up to normal, and he's got hypoglycemia, but again, transfusion will fix that in a jiffy. There's other options usually, but here they won't make much sense- -I mean, it's not like I can use a vasopressor or ventilator, so... It's really just a waiting game at this point."

Gunn, who felt a little left out being the only one without encyclopedic medical knowledge, asked, "So, this... Is it a coma?"

"Not technically _comatose_. It's called catatonic. In a stupor, to be precise. Looks like it was brought on by a mix of trauma and whatever drugs they pumped into him to make him easier to ship." She brought her hand to Spike's face, snapped her fingers, waved her hand about. Spike proceeded staring numbly at the ceiling. "He's in a better place, I like to say."

They all looked at Spike with renewed worry. His eyes rolled around, and his lips moved slightly, but otherwise he _was_very much static.

Gunn a bit impatiently suggested, "Can't you just snap him out of it?"

"No, not really." A glimmer of excitement lifted in her eyes as she suggested hungrily, "He might respond to intense pain- -would you like to try that?"

They all gaped as she rummaged for a scalpel, and Gunn waved his hands in horror. "No! No- -uh, no thanks."

She had the nerve to look mildly disappointed. "Fine. Have fun; I'll be right outside if you need me."

"C-can we- -" Fred began to stammer out, almost losing courage.

Salad looked at her.

"Can we _touch _him?"

For a moment, the doctor tried to tell if she was joking, then responded by whispering in a condescending n tone, "I wouldn't recommend it, no."

The doctor left, probably assuming all their questions had been answered and she was leaving no ambiguities behind. But even as they moved closer to the bed where Spike remained silent, still, and plugged with IV's in nearly every vein, Fred and Gunn kept moving their eyes between their unconscious friend and Wesley, as if awaiting further explanation. _He_ had worked with the doctor. _He _knew something they did not.

Wesley sensed their suspicions but chewed the inside of his cheek, refusing to speak unless spoken to.

He noticed something at the door. "You're welcome to come in," he said.

They all turned at this observation, finding Angel fidgeting in the doorway like he was afraid to come any closer. With spectators, he quickly got over it, and so he sheepishly uttered, "I know," and moved inside. His body language remained taut, uncomfortable, as if coming into the presence of something distasteful.

For a few minutes, they all stood where they were, chewing their lips, gnawing their nails, watching the hitched and intermittent pops of breath coming from Spike's lungs. His eyes scrolled like loose marbles, his fingers twitched like they were wound in puppet-strings. Over his blanched skin, bruises and welts oozed with old blood, and sores speckled the breadth of his arms and throat.

He looked terrible and no one could think of anything useful to say.

"_A-hem_." Wesley cleared his throat so suddenly that Fred jumped slightly. "I, er... Would like to speak with you alone, if I could, Angel."

Angel nodded and followed him into the hall.

* * *

><p>Angel miserably shuffled his feet. He tried to look intent when Wesley approached him, but he still appeared mostly wounded and lost. "Are you all right?"<p>

"Yeah," Angel said, the weakness in his words betraying his exhaustion. "I'm- -sure, I'm doing... Fine."

"Good, good." Wesley cleared his throat and briefly inclined his eyes back where the others congregated. "It, er... It's normal. It's nothing I didn't..." It was strange how the more they spoke, the more words began to tumble out of their conversation like loose teeth. They finally parted gazes; Wesley placed his firmly against the opposite blank wall, pressing his finger up the bridge of his nose. "I had them neglect some details in his medical report. I thought it best."

Angel winced but nodded numbly.

"Have you taken any considerations?"

"I- -really, that would be his- -"

"What I mean is, would you rather have a doctor speak with him? Or we could bring in someone- -"

"No, it's all right. I'll talk to him, I guess..."

"Are you sure?"

Suddenly showing signs of irritation, Angel said, "Do we have to talk about this now?"

"Of course not. Perhaps later, when he's awake."

Another nod, another quiet affirmation. "...When he's awake."

The exchange ended with Wesley hoisting his handbag over his shoulders and, for a second, offering a glimpse of a smile, which dissipated as immediately as it had appeared. He noted the tension enveloping Angel's form and decided to move the conversation along.

"If you're wondering about _her_," he said, nodding his head after Salad, "she may have no bedside manner, but she's not evil. I've already made arrangements for a nondisclosure agreement."

"So, we're paying her off."

"With a small sum. But I don't anticipate any problems."

Angel nodded. Nodded again. Kept nodding. His eyes trailed along the row of doors.

"You ought to get some rest."

"Yeah, I... I will. I just have one thing, and then... 'Night, Wes."

The comment was meant to assure Wesley that nothing was wrong, but it had the opposite effect. Even as Angel waved him a polite goodbye and slipped away, the Englishman drummed his finger with wonder and contemplated the possibilities.

* * *

><p>When they saw him, they ran.<p>

No yelling. No fighting. No confrontation.

Angel was disappointed.

Returning to the abandoned factory had been an attempt at reconciling images. Parallelism. Coming full circle. The snake eating its tail- -_the circle of life_. In all of Angel's existence, he had been told this was how things were supposed to work, and he had labored to keep it that way. You never visited a place only once, not if it was important. To understand something, to be able to live through it, you had to memorialize it and return to it, again and again and again. Angelus had always returned to the scene of his crimes for this reason. Now, Angel thought if he could tread the dusty floors of this place, then the universe might right itself, and lessons he had been previously blind to would reveal themselves to him.

But the place was empty of both men and meaning.

The cartel's operations had been apparently humming along, but the damage of the raid was done: organization was at best lackluster compared to before, and they had finished picking through the remains of their burned merchandise. Soon, Angel knew, they would move on, but for now they lingered like a bad odor, sighing and grumbling over their lost profits. They were in no mood to run him off. By the time he entered the building, they were in their vehicles, retreating into the dark corners of the city.

He was staring at the door to a meat locker when he heard footsteps and a familiar voice.

"Angel?"

Angel squeezed his eyes shut, wondering if he were hallucinating. But Wesley's voice drew closer, more vivid, until it was unmistakable.

"The driver called me," Wesley explained. "He was concerned."

(How long had he been here? Angel suddenly couldn't recall. Time drew its cold fingers down his neck, telling him of the hours he had lost in this place).

"We should go back."

But Angel had words he needed to say. "Like roaches," he fumed, circling around. "They scatter, then the moment the lights go out, they're back."

The speech, having come from apparently nowhere, at first puzzled his friend, but the meaning sprung from the abandoned materials, the tire tracks marking the presence of the cartel. "Is that our problem?"

The question hadn't occurred to Angel; in the frenzy of his rage, he had forgotten.

"They target vampires. In a twisted way, they're doing our job for us."

"And..." He sighed. "Spike."

"...Is no ordinary vampire, as you know. I realize you want to feel... Consistent. But you've got to let this go."

This retort apparently surprised the vampire. He gazed into the horizon with renewed resentment, pawed his coat in a fidgeting manner, and blustered, gesturing wildly, "I can't- -! He's _out_ there, Wes, he's _out there _somewhere and- -!" His words failed him and slid into hoarseness.

Knowing exactly who 'he' was, Wesley replied, "We will find him."

Angel immediately turned and hammered his fist into the door.

The cacophony wracked their bodies, even as the echoes of the crash faded into the hollows.

Angel paused, breathed a few more breaths, then slammed his fist again. The rhythm pleased him; without rage or sentiment, without any emotion marring his expression or expiration, he pummeled the door, again, again, ignoring the skin splitting, the knuckle bleeding, the bone cracking. He only wanted to feel it yield as his blows softened the metal, caused it to dent and crumple. He let himself destroy something, and for a few moments, he felt brilliant again.

The hinges came undone.

Dizzied, Angel placed his bloodied hand back at his side. An outburst came from his throat like it was crawling out. "I know how to help perfect strangers; why can't I do this!"

His palms, soft with sweat and messy with bruising, pressed against his forehead. He reeled.

"Y-you're smart, Wes, so just tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"What to do. How to fix this." He started to take in shuddering gasps and collapse to his knees. "I- -I have to fix this, I'll make things like before, I swear, just tell me..."

Wesley, trying to prevent him from falling entirely, grabbed him by the shoulders and gave them a steady squeeze. "Breathe, Angel. _Breathe._"

The vampire almost laughed in spite of himself.

"It'll help, I promise."

So Angel, hunched over the debris-ridden floor, gasped, heaved, trembled as if sick. All Wesley could do was lean hard at his back, massaging Angel's shoulders with every hysterical intake of air. His arms quaked from being so tightly bound to the vampire's sobbing form.

"I know," Wesley said into the emptiness, responding to something unspoken. He knew his words meant little, but he also knew they were all that mattered now, so he shushed him and murmured false and consoling things. "It's okay. It's okay."

* * *

><p>His fists remained taut, shaking, and bloodied the entire ride back to Wolfram and Hart.<p>

Once they arrived safely in the building's parking garage, they entered the elevator, and Wesley tried to guide it to Angel's room. But Angel silently rebuffed him by hitting the button to the hospital wing.

"Angel..."

The vampire shifted restlessly, refusing to look Wesley in the eye.

"He isn't going anywhere. And you direly need some rest."

"I need to." Angel's voice was groggy and jaded, like he didn't have the energy the complete his thoughts. "Have to."

"I don't mean to sound heartless, but right now, you being there won't make a difference."

Angel shook his head emphatically. "He's alone," he said.

Wesley wanted to counter that there were doctors and nurses and staff, but the way Angel swayed informed him that wasn't what he meant. Angel shook just at the edge of weeping but steeled with his usual resolve. No tears formed. Only omens, the fore-shocks of repressed grief.

He looked Wesley in the eyes. "He's all alone, and I can't leave him like that."

* * *

><p><em>1900, Northern China<em>

* * *

><p>"- -Bloody hell." Spike narrowly avoided dropping the box in his hand.<p>

The last thing he expected was to arrive home and find Angelus lounging in the drawing room. For the record, after not seeing him or hearing of any news of him in so many weeks, Spike had all but concluded Angelus was dead. If someone had told him the fellow vampire was up and walking, he would have called them a damn liar.

Yet there he was.

Instinctively, Spike spun around looking for evidence of Darla's presence, and upon not finding her, proceeded with caution. He stepped a bit closer, eying Angelus as he sat exhausted in an armchair and fiddled nervously with a handkerchief. "Uh, hullo?" Spike asked testily, wondering why he hadn't been noticed yet. "Angelus?"

"Oh, hello." Angelus fell into a pensive pause- -very unnatural of him. His entire appearance was strangely haggard, like something had gone wrong and he refused to say what. Sensing Spike's skepticism, he proffered hopefully, "I'm back."

"'See that. For good?"

"That's the idea."

Spike regarded him the expected lack of enthusiasm, but he was also too wearied to put up a fuss. He frowned and kicked off his shoes, knocking them about the floor. "Huh. How about that. Well, Darla was insufferable while you were gone. So, cheers, I guess. Give her a good tumble on me, huh?"

Perhaps Spike should have spoken with more weight and respect. It was, after all, the first time he had seen his grandsire for an extended period in time. The moment might have been treated with pomp and circumstance. There might have been a welcoming feast, parade, and orgy. Instead Spike strode across the room barefoot, belt loose and shirt untucked, and started to lazily study a looseleaf pamphlet left on the end table. He lit up a cigarette and let it rest on his lip in an uncouth way. "Why'd you go, anyway?" Spike asked aloud, sounding only partially interested and keeping his eyes on the paper. "Her Highness wouldn't give any real answer. I figured you got snatched up by hunters, or..."

Angelus bolted to his feet, jawline trembling. With his usual swiftness, grabbed Spike by the arm.

Spike instinctively flinched and ducked, thinking he was about to get decked. He even clenched one fist in preparation for his retaliation. But gradually, time passed and no strikes landed. Spike cautiously brought himself up again to read Angelus' face, and found a tangle of hurt and anguish. An expression he knew well, but had never- -ever- -seen on Angelus. The look was so peculiar on him, that Spike momentarily thought he was seeing things.

Angelus' hand still squeezed his forearm, nearly painfully. Spike tugged, twisted uncomfortably in an attempt to pry from his grip. His cigarette tumbled to the floor.

"Leggo of me," he protested, more petulantly than he intended. No matter how he moved, Angelus' powerful hold remained. The older vampire's eyes flicked with insurmountable confusion, keeping a lean and starved gaze. Spike, unsure what to make of this, began to feel a little frightened. He yammered and fought, only just avoiding snapping Angelus' arm as he broke from the lock. "The bloody _hell_ is wrong with you?"

The physical contact broken, Angelus reeled momentarily. His knees visibly weakened; his head cocked to the side, listening for Darla's return, but hearing nothing, he hissed as if carrying a dangerous secret. "_William_."

Spike grumbled. "It's still 'Spike'- -your trip wipe your memory clean?"

"William, please listen to me," Angelus continued, ignoring his correction. He crept close again, pausing once in a while to look over his shoulder. His whispers were raw and desperate. "I know now... I see... I know how I've..."

What was that soft sound coming across Angelus' tongue? It was gentle, but high-pitched and irritating, like the whine of a mosquito haunting one's ear. Spike edged back, still not convinced he wasn't about to get whaled on.

The light of the candle burned out the whites of Angelus' eyes, until he appeared like a burning effigy. A hint of tears brightened the rims of his eyelids. "Her... And you... I've hurt you both..."

"Yeah, creatures of the night, that's how it goes," Spike nervously assured him, not sure what Angelus meant by that observation.

"You... And Dru... What I've done... I'm sorry, William."

"'Sorry'?" A word he never expected to come across Angelus' lips. His worries had been validated, but by what nature, he didn't know. Angelus didn't smell like alcohol, so it couldn't be drunkenness. No, he smelled strange, light- -amidst all the muck and filth in his skin was a freshness he couldn't name. Spike defensively upheld two fists, snipping at his ever-closer grandsire, "Dunno what you're apologizing for; didn't miss you _that_ badly."

Angelus closed in, and before he could snarl another word, pushed him against the wall. But not by the throat, which was normal fare- -Angelus held him by his shoulders, squeezing again, pinning him. Spike grunted and retaliated with a swift kick to the shins, and when he received no response, he felt a glimmer of panic in his throat. Still smelling like ripe garbage, Angelus pushed, disregarding Spike's puzzled terror, and snagged him up into a tight, apologetic embrace. They remained there like that for some agonizing amount of time: Spike, body stiff, unsure what to do;Angelus with his arms about him, crushing him beneath the weight of his stifled sobs.

The whispers came again, this time with a conspiratorial air, as if he was in the midst of some half-crazed plotting. "...You. I could save you." Angelus brought one hand to the back of Spike's head, roughly stroking his hair, an attempt at affection in which he clearly had little practice. "There's something... Human left in you... Dru's gone... Darla's... But you. If I had to. I think I could save you..."

"_Unph_- -what the hell- -" Spike took to squirming, and decided this must be an elaborate joke. "Okay- -hilarious, really- -"

"My boy," Angelus said, voice suddenly drained of emotion, arms pressing Spike close to the span of his chest.

Spike considered putting up a fight, but he wondered if it would do much good. _Just oblige the crazy git,_ he finally decided, uneasily patting his swooning elder on the shoulder. "Uh, yeah, all right."

Angelus was all sighs, all tears; he kissed Spike's forehead, trembled in pain, and continued to pet his head a little too hard. "My boy... My boy..."

* * *

><p>Spike feared few things, but seeing the great Angelus weeping like a regretful old woman scared the seven hells out of him. The following week in China did little to assuage his terror; Angelus came home at odd hours moon-eyed, always leaving alone, always returning stinking of rapists, dogs, rats... Angelus was supposed to be the father-figure, the patriarch, but instead he crawled about and hid in his room like the resident crazy uncle. He refused to touch Drusilla. Sliced open his own flesh with his nails, keened with sick. Darla seemed content to pretend nothing was the matter, and scolded them if they complained about his behavior. And if Spike wasn't quick enough to avoid him in the hallway, he placed a hand at the back of Spike's neck and murmured gentle, sorrowful things, repeating his wish to "save him."<p>

Thankfully and as always, though, Spike gradually faded into the background of Angelus' view. He was little more than a smudge of the landscape of Angelus' many wrongs; there were other people to whimper over, other, far more innocent victims. Spike could not deny feeling enormous relief when he realized it was so. Every day Angelus had lived with them, Spike laid in bed, absolutely petrified and incapable of sleep, thinking that any moment, his crazed grandsire would storm in and fulfill his promise- -no, his _threat-_ -to snatch him from his bed, spiriting him away from Darla and his precious Dru. Would he be able to fight back, he wondered? Would he be able to resist? Where would Angelus take him? What would he _do _to him? Would Angelus starve him, make him eat rats and murderers as he did?

But after Spike killed his first Slayer, he saw how Angelus' gaze changed.

"Guess that makes you one of us," he had said.

(And of course 'us' really meant 'them,' those damned and lost ones giggling, dangling at their arms.)

There was no saving to be done.

* * *

><p><strong>END BOOK I<strong>

Up next: Who is Piper? What are his motives?

Will revenge ever be had?

Will anything ever be the same?

Find out in...

**BOOK 2: THE FLY ON THE WALL**


	9. Book 2: The Fly on the Wall

**BOOK 2 - The Fly On the Wall**

* * *

><p>The first thing Piper noticed when he slipped into the room was a black leather jacket draped over a visitor's chair.<p>

This is important to note, if only because he noticed the jacket rather than the motionless body lying in a hospital bed. In fact, he chose to completely disregard this latter and minor detail, determined instead to find out if the coat was any good.

No one had been in the room for hours- -a miracle after all this time. Piper drifted in and out of Wolfram and Hart for days, and after many visits to this room, this particular place with his only chance of survival lying there, vegetable-like, he found no change. How long did it take for a vampire to snap out of a state, anyway? Piper had never heard of such a thing. It was preposterous. Maddening. A cosmic joke aimed- -he had no doubt- -solely in his direction.

Piper slipped on the jacket, glancing at the unconscious vampire's face. The condition had improved, he acknowledged. Wounds had scabbed over, turned to a healthy pink. The bruises that marred its face before had all but disappeared. But the external condition did him no good. He needed more.

On second thought, the coat was not his thing. Too big, too warm. He kept it on for a few seconds longer, though, if only because in a moment of distraction, he approached the vampire's bedside and shoved his fingers into its face. Like an impatient toddler seeking attention, he prodded its cheeks, pulled its nose, roughly manipulated the shape of its facial muscles. No response.

Piper stood back, sighed, and peeled off the coat.

* * *

><p>"Now where are your- -"<p>

A quick kick beneath Spike's bed resounded with a thump.

"- -Ah."

With his hands, he blindly teased out a plastic container. Inside, items knocked into one another, clattered and cluttered. Wallet, phone, keys, little things. The contents of emptied coat pockets. To the untrained eye, Piper might have seemed to be doing nothing but digging through them out of some sense of curiosity. He opened, flipped, fingered. He examined business cards and ID cards. He took nothing; he didn't even bother to liberate the cash nestled in the folds of the wallet. But he harvested information.

He dug... and dug... and then realized eyes were on him.

At first he thought he was seeing things, mistaking the random eye-twitches in the body for something more personal. _He's just spazzing_.

But then it blinked at him. Slowly, deliberately.

Piper froze. He couldn't move. Breathe. Think.

His cheek started to itch.

"...Yello," the vampire rasped, clear eyes settling on him.

Piper didn't reply.

Despite its show of cognizance, the vampire looked frail, moving its head from side to side like an elderly man craning for a view. "Who are you?" Its voice crackled with phlegm.

Now in a blind panic, Piper blurted out, "Nurse."

Spike looked up and down the man again. Red windbreaker. Ratty shoes. Sling backpack over the shoulder. Spike tried to vocalize the confusion percolating his waking mind, but words came out in spitting sizzles.

Now in a hurry to leave, Piper stuffed the items unceremoniously back in the container and tried to force the cover into place. "Sorry- -to- -wake you. Have to go."

"...My mobile."

Piper's movements staggered to a halt. He could see the vampire's phone resting at the bottom of the bin, black and within reach.

Spike was pointing in his direction, mumbling his plea once more. "My mobile in there? Hand it to me, huh?"

Piper nearly didn't. He had ample reason not to come any closer, after all. But after staring at the vampire for some time, seeing it weakly pawing the air and its eyes jutting about in a daze, he decided it couldn't be much of a threat. It was too groggy, too confused.

So he took up the innocuous item, approached Spike, and, holding it out, prepared to hand it back.

Spike snatched him by the wrist. The phone clattered to the floor, and automatically, Piper started to hyperventilate.

"Who are you?" Spike repeated, this time with threat in his voice and face.

Ligaments twisted. Piper sucked in a quick breath, ready to cry out in pain.

"What were you looking for, huh? Somebody send you? Who- -"

The vampire obviously thought he had a better grip than he did, but this time, the age-old miracle of human adrenaline won out. Piper didn't wait for Spike to release him- -with his free hand, he socked him in the face.

"_Ow!_"

His hold slipped, and by the time his vision adjusted, the stranger had scurried off through the door. Not one to accept a loss sitting down, Spike threw back his blanket, barked a threat into the empty air- -'oh no you don't'- -and launched himself off the bed.

Then, to his genuine surprise, his legs folded underneath him, sending him into a spiral of floor-slipping, IV-tearing, and skull-fracturing.


	10. Book 2, Chapter 1: Criminal Intent

**Book 2 - Chapter 1: Criminal Intent**

Angel came running. Or at least, as close to running as one could reasonably do in the hospital hallway. He knocked into one nurse after another, panted eager apologies, and kept hurrying.

The good news rattled through his skull like loose change, making sounds of alarm and confusion. Good news, right? It was good news. _Of course it was good news_. But his steps and stumbling seemed to imply something bad, too. Like he was running to prevent catastrophe. Before it's too late! Run!

"Excuse me! Pardon me, sorry..."

He had to disregard the glares and mutterings, but that was easy. The hard part was knowing how close he was, and having to wonder what he would see.

* * *

><p>Spike, for his part, had woken up battered and pissed. Not only had he managed to knock his head against the floor, leaving a sizable, lumpy bruise on his forehead, but something was wrong with him, and that was enough to throw him into a mean temper. He hollered, waved his arms about as nurses flocked him, nearly knocking them over in the process. "There's something wrong with my legs," he yelped. "What happened to my legs? Am I crippled? <em>What happened to my- -<em>"

Doctor Salad appeared through the doorway as if by magic and strode straight for him.

When he saw her, his complaining and thrashing paused, unknowingly revealing how much theatrics was involved. As she drew closer, he had the nerve to purr, "- -Well, hello, beautifu- -oh _aughuh-god_!"

"You're not paralyzed, you drama queen," she concluded, releasing his toe from her twisting grip. "Your legs are atrophied. Day or two of exercise and they'll be good as new."

She continued to look over him, assessing his bruises, prying at his brow. He harrumphed but obediently went along with it, though he was still processing the information she just foisted upon him. _Atrophy? How the hell?_ Finally, working through his grogginess, he spoke up. "Where am I?"

"I give you three guesses."

"Wolfram and- -" He paused, eyes scrolling along the bleached hospital walls. "The hell am I- -?"

Doctor Salad, not interested in playing a game of twenty questions, ignored his disorientation. Her clinical gaze fell on his arm. "Get another IV," she said to a nurse. She clucked disappointingly at his wound. "Really shredded open that vein, didn't you? We'll have to do the other arm. What were you doing getting up?"

He wanted to be able to say something snarky in return, to tell her it wasn't any of her business, but when he tried to think on it, he realized that, yes, he had hit his head on the floor, but he could not remember what event had caused it. All he could see in his mind's eye was a murky, dark blur, a presence, and a sharp pain blooming in his temples. Worried by the fogginess of his short-term memory, he brought a hand to the bruise, testily poking at it. "I- -Was- -Er- -Guess I wasn't all awake yet?"

"Uh-huh." She sounded as if she didn't completely believe him. "How are you feeling?"

"Headachey," he deadpanned, now pressing his palm against his bruise.

"Hmm." She pretended to jot it down. "Slamming your skull into things does that."

He didn't deign to grant her eye contact, instead glancing hysterically about the small space, identifying the lights, the small table against the wall, a waiting room chair with his coat draped along its back. Seeing it there, black and heavy against the airy whites and blues, made his awakening suddenly seem very real.

The room, cool and sterile as it was, with white-washed walls, dim fluorescent lights, small blips of lights, and smell of antiseptic, could not be mistaken for threatening. It had been _designed_ to be relaxing, or at the very least a _tabula rasa,_ too bland to get a rise out of anyone. But Spike jerked as if every corner and shadow were suspect. The news that he was at Wolfram and Hart didn't dispel his suspicion; if anything, it gave him more reason to think the nurses were up to no good- -_evil _nurses, right? Evil nurses working for some evil corporation. He didn't know them. They could be anybody.

"Do you feel any dizziness? Nausea?"

"I, uh- -" A nurse grabbed his arm and plunged in the new needle, and he yelped. "- -God! Give a bloke some warning, huh?" He turned back to Salad, sounding uncertain and hurried. "Fine. Good. Headachey. So, uh, love, if you wouldn't mind filling in some blanks for me, it's just I don't know- -how exactly did I- -"

"Ah!" Doctor Salad tapped her pen and looked up from her paper. "Look who's here for a visit!"

Spike swerved his head again, this time for the doorway, and found, to his consternation, a familiar face.

* * *

><p>Angel stood gawking at him, looking horrendous and sleep-deprived.<p>

Angel hadn't been sure what to expect. He had gotten used to the rhythm of Spike's unconsciousness, almost to the point of complacency. He forgot Spike would ever wake up. Of course, he harassed the staff plenty with calls inquiring about Spike's condition. It was his way of showing he cared. But he hadn't visited for a few days now, so when he saw Spike now, he was genuinely surprised. He looked good. Almost completely normal. Maybe a little tired, and a new bruise had formed at his temple, but the discoloration, the cuts, the mauling had all but disappeared. It was Spike, all right, healthy and alert, his eyes open, not dull but sparkling and inert.

"I'll leave you two to it," Salad said, motioning for the other nurse to follow her out.

Angel uneasily watched them go and forced himself to draw near to the bed, where Spike puzzled over the nurses' behavior. Why leave? What was the point of _that_? Suddenly, in a manner so alive that it startled Angel, Spike looked him in the face. "Well, hello," he said, with as much sarcasm packed into his greeting as possible. "Come to have a laugh?"

Angel said nothing.

Confused by the silence, Spike cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

Angel started to chew the inside of his lip.

"_What?_" Spike huffed. "You look like somebody murdered your puppy. Out with it."

"You're- -you're okay," Angel said, staring on in disbelief.

"Uh, yeah. I mean, I sort of..." He motioned a smashing motion with his hand. "Cracked my melon. No big deal."

Angel wanted to say something. Something important, he was sure. But try as he might, he couldn't think of anything not mind-numbingly stupid. He started with a benign question, all the while furiously rubbing the back of his neck. "H-how- -how are you?"

_Yeah, that wasn't awkward at all. _"That the question of the day? I'm _fine_."

"Oh! Good." He paused, endured Spike's puzzled gaze, and gestured vaguely across the room. "I, I put your coat..."

"Yeah, saw that...Where's the rest of 'em?"

"What?"

"The _rest of my clothes_."

"I- -I think they threw them away," Angel said.

Instead of asking Angel to clarify who 'they' were, Spike frowned and shrugged. "Damn. Liked those jeans. Ah, well. You'll have to fetch me something- -wouldn't be proper, running around only wearing this thing." He tugged on the neck of his hospital gown.

Angel didn't understand his request. "...Why would you need...?"

"Pushing off soon, aren't I? Not much use hanging about."

"But... Your legs."

"Doc said I'll be springing back to normal in no time."

"You should... rest."

"Look, I get it, I took a good beating yesterday, but I'm fine- -I'll just pop back in my place, take a hot shower, get my head on straight..."

_Yesterday? _Angel struggled to organize his thoughts into words. The only way he could think to explain the situation accurately was with a clumsy, "Spike, you're _sick_."

Spike gave him a very credulous look. They both well knew that vampires _don't_ get sick. "I feel fine. Okay, well, no, I feel like rubbish, but I'm guessing that's normal for a guy who got hit by a truck or... Wrestled a bear or... Something." He wrinkled his brow in an effort to focus his memory. "Anyway, like I said. Think I'll survive."

"S-Spike, when do- -" For some reason, he hesitated to ask, but evidently, it was a crucial point. "What day is it today?"

The question caused Spike to frown. "Uh... Sunday?"

"It's Monday."

"I've been out two days?"

"Monday next week," Angel informed him. "_Nine_ days."

Angel waited for some semblance of alarm or panic to show itself in Spike's expression. At the very least, some sign of surprise. But instead, Spike's face wrinkled with concentration, like someone doing a quick math problem in their head. He mused, "Must've been one hell of a party."

After some time, Angel realized it was a joke. His facial features twitched, his expression like a gravestone.

Spike sighed. "You're even more humorless than usual. No use asking why, I suppose?"

"It's been a hard week," Angel said, rasping.

"Yeah, must've been. A whole week without me. All tap-danced out, are you?"

To Spike's genuine surprise, Angel looked wounded by his careless comment, but before either of them could say any more, the doorway sprang loose with more life.

"Spike?"

Fred. It was Fred, teary-eyed, relieved, her usually prim hair in disarray.

"Oh my god!" She entered the room, closely followed by Wesley and Gunn, who looked equally intent, though they did not, as she did, collapse on top of him, folding him into a hug. "You're awake!"

"Uh, yeah! Guess I am." Not sure how to respond, he returned the hug, patting her on the shoulder. He noticed the faces staring earnestly at him and uncomfortably quipped, "Brought the whole neighborhood, have we?"

"Had to see this for ourselves," Gunn said warmly. "So, how is it to be back in the land of the living?"

Spike winced, trying to prop himself up against his pillow, and grimly corrected, "In the land, not so much of it."

"We were so worried," Fred continued.

"You were out like a light- -"

"Been nearly a week- -"

"Thought you'd never- -"

"So good to see you're- -"

* * *

><p>...<p>

* * *

><p>… Asleep.<p>

Angel had been asleep, but he wasn't sure how long...

Wanted to get up at first, but his dreams were pleasant, gory, tempting. He succumbed again...

* * *

><p>...And when he next awoke, he felt the prickling sensation of sunlight knifing the horizon, its shine stiff and sterile.<p>

He marveled at the magic of being able to do it, this waking to the sun. Selling out had its perks.

He mistook the purple sky for a sign of dawn, until he realized the sun's position was wrong. He glanced at the clock. Five-thirty. Sunset.

(Spike had woken up, too.)

Had he dreamed it? He couldn't remember now. He let his mind focus on Spike, his waking up, his benign chatter. If he dreamed it, was it out of pain, or regret, or...?

(No, no, it happened, he was sure of it now.)

(Had to go downstairs.)

He rolled out of bed, ignoring the cold, stabbing pains lancing his skull.

* * *

><p>In his office, sitting in his chair and sorting through the amassed paperwork at his desk, there sat a man. Angel found himself watching for a moment, seeing the wiry, brown-haired, intricate body reach its arms about, busily sorting and pulling order out of chaos. In his state of wakefulness, Angel had yet to connect the form to Wesley, to the point of perceiving the person as alien. Like a stranger he had yet to really meet.<p>

The out of body experience dispelled the moment Wesley turned, having heard the elevator doors. "Oh! There you are." Wesley granted him a flash of a welcoming smile. "You disappeared on us."

"Yeah. Sorry." He rubbed the weariness from his eyes and Wesley noticed.

"Did you get any sleep?"

"I caught a couple hours." He noted Wesley's apprehension and added in reassurance, "Almost several."

"Good. You needed it."

Angel tugged on his coat, hoping it wasn't too mussed. He suddenly felt very concerned that Wesley thought he was falling apart, and wanted more than anything to prove he was fine. He self-consciously wondered if Wesley could sense his numbness, his alienation. Angel moved closer to the desk to communicate his normality. "So- -how's he doing?"

"Chipper- -all things considered." A moment of withholding, then an admitted, "He seems to be... His memory, that is, of events..."

"He told me. Doesn't remember anything of this last week."

"Yes." Wesley removed his glasses to habitually clean them. "Quite right."

"What's the last thing he remembers?"

"He says he recalls Mira approaching him. Some vague memory about getting into a car... From then on, nothing." He paused before adding skeptically, "I suppose we'll take it?"

"What do you mean?"

Wesley lifted his eyes to him, appearing surprised. "I mean- -do you believe him?"

The thought hadn't occurred to him. Maybe out of protective reflex, or maybe because Spike had acted so convincingly. Angel nonetheless felt the need to leap to Spike's defense. "We- -vampires- -are good at that." By his arched eyebrow, Wesley showed he didn't quite understand what he meant. "I mean, we forget things. Block them out. I was in hell for all those years, and I can't remember squat- -"

"Any good news is welcome at this point," Wesley relented, backing off of the issue.

Rather than dwell on it, Angel paced across the office, eventually standing before the bright and open glass, where he usually retreated with his private thoughts. Across the street, he noticed lights blinking on in windows and streets. It had always struck him, this city- -how it hummed leisurely in the daytime, its energy at best lackluster, only to stretch its limbs and stir into a greedy prowl when the sun went down. No wonder it attracted the nocturnal types.

He thought, briefly, of going out, of doing something.

"What are your thoughts on, erm, reclaiming your desk?"

Angel turned and saw how intently Wesley was motioning for his return. Uncertainly, he responded, "Oh, yeah, I guess I should..."

"I don't mean to pressure you," Wesley said.

"No, it's about time I get back into the swing of things." He let his eyes pass over an impressive stack of papers that now rested atop his desk. "What am I in for?"

"Hysteria, mostly." With that, Wesley stood to his feet and sardonically added, "Thank you for trusting me with it- -really, I'm flattered- -but let me say: _never again_."

Angel surprised himself by chuckling. When was the last time he'd laughed or chuckled or...?

"Harmony will be able to bring you up to speed on what's here... But, Angel, promise you won't push yourself."

Angel nodded, ceased looking Wesley in the face, and started to echo empty affirmatives, hoping that with enough prodding, he'd be finally left alone. As much as Wesley was a friend to him, right now, he was not in the mood for chatter or pleasantries.

In the end, it took several more strained lines, several more failed attempts at connection, before Wesley sensed that a wall had been erected and he wouldn't be crossing it anytime soon. The former Watcher parted awkwardly, with a clearing of his throat and a shrug-accompanied, _well, anyway, I'll be on my way_.

Gone through the door. Mercifully. _Finally_. Angel grunted and pawed the items on his desk with his heavy, greedy hands in a solitary frenzy, like a starving creature rifling for food. Language lost meaning. Customs felt pompous and unimportant. The soft things of human nature fled, leaving him half-exhausted and snarling.

The red dreams simmered back into his consciousness, giving a rosy tinge to the work before him. On instinct, he imagined the smell of copper. His eyes watered with thirst.

There was one end to this- -and only one.

He was going to kill Radoslav.

* * *

><p>Fred sighed deeply as she turned off the lights to the lab. Workers bid her goodbye for the night, but she paid only enough mind to nod plaintively. Her mind was elsewhere.<p>

She felt better, certainly. Better than the days past, and much better than the days Angel spent drinking in his suite. She found herself smiling again today, breathing easily. The shake that had possessed her limbs for what seemed like forever had passed. She knew things would be all right. She knew from the moment she saw Spike's eyes looking back at her.

So the weight on her wasn't sadness. It was... Something else. Distraction. A numb unease, almost like guilt. But mostly, she was exhausted. It took the command of every faculty in her to get through today with her head on straight.

She visited Spike that morning, a quick pop-in, a brief conversation before she started work. Spike deflected her worries effortlessly, insisting he'd be out of bed-rest soon. She could tell he was ready, anxious even, to get out. He didn't seem to like hospitals- -not the attention of the nurses, not the needles, not the poking and prodding.

But as Spike got better, Angel meanwhile descended into something of a state: out of one antisocial mood and into another. And if the first mood was the depressive- -passive, alcoholic, paralyzed- -then this was the manic, schizophrenic. He hadn't come out of his office all day, nor had he allowed any interruptions to... whatever it was he was doing. Harmony claimed he had been making incessant phone calls, but to whom, she didn't know.

He clearly hadn't taken Wesley's advice to take it easy.

"Was comatose before," Gunn mused. "Now he's just freakin' terrifying."

Fred tried not to think about it. She had gotten proficient at not-thinking lately, a surprising feat considering her tendency for wall-scrawling neuroticism. She focused on the positive, on things she could control.

Like walking on her own two feet, like neatening her desks, like stopping by Spike's room for a visit before heading home. Surely he'd appreciate seeing her one more time.

So she took the elevator, keeping down the rising simmer of her stomach, and took the trip to where Spike lay recovering.

The only catch turned out to be _he wasn't there._ The bed was lightly rumpled, the lights still on, but Spike was nowhere to be seen.

She frowned. She thought he was too indisposed to be moved.

...Maybe Angel let him go home early?

* * *

><p>It could all be blamed on the nurse, really.<p>

Spike might have been more cognizant, if only the nurse had butted out.

The night was dull but altogether normal, with the bleeps of medical equipment and his impatient handling of the remote to the television, which flickered without warning. Harmony, the good girl she was, stopped by that morning with a change of clothes from his apartment- -how she managed to get in, he didn't bother asking- -but he was then told he couldn't leave yet. Amorphous claims like 'needing rest' floated about. He figured he'd rested _enough_ for one decade.

A whole day went by, with only the occasional visit and peep out of the others, and by sunset he started to get mighty antsy. He wanted out. Bad. Wanted his own bed and telly and Xbox. Would absolutely _kill_ for a beer.

Then a nurse came in, claiming she was giving him something to help him sleep, and he tried, for the un-life of him, to explain _he was a vampire_. Nocturnal, here. And he didn't need help sleeping, why, he was just fine, really.

She smiled, all fake and plastic-like, and assured him it was 'doctor's orders.' Nap-time it was, then.

* * *

><p>A cough.<p>

It was getting late by then, and the hallway had been deathly silent for what felt, in his drugged stupor, like many hours. The doctors and crew lingered in rooms of other patients, neither wanting to bother nor agitate their one vampire guest.

Another cough, this one a little dryer, a little more rasped.

Spike heard the crinkling of paper between finger tips, something unwrapping. Chewing. Spike hoped if he lay there quietly long enough, the person would get some sense and leave. Unfortunately, whoever it was went on to make the variety of annoying, quiet sounds of a loiterer: sniffing, coughing, scratching, chewing, shuffling of feet. Finally, with great effort, he peeled opened one eye, then both.

The creature- -and that's exactly the word that came to mind as Spike looked upon it- -stood in the doorway, slumped as if trying to remain invisible. The face that came into his blurry view, unconcealed by the dim light, was a pale face, a rat-face, really, with beady black eyes and a starved, desperate look. Young, staring, wearing a trashy red windbreaker that, for reasons Spike couldn't remember past an oozing headache, seemed awfully familiar.

Before he could ask, the person noticed he was awake and spoke up. "Driver," the person drawled, noticeably cracking a piece of gum between his teeth. "Here to get you home."

Spike admittedly didn't treat this sudden event with the suspicion it deserved. The drugs swimming in his veins turned him loopy and compliant, and after all, his desire to leave was strong enough to overpower any fear of the unknown. So rather than sputter and ask for identification, he happily dragged himself up. "Bloody finally."

* * *

><p>There was a compounding surreality to walking down that hallway, back in his clothes, back on his feet, back with his coat fitting over him shoulders. It was surreal being normal, and surreal that being normal <em>could<em> feel this sub-normal. A niggling worry started then, that maybe this was the beginning of _never feeling what you felt before, an awareness you can't shut out__, can't go back, can't ever go back to being_- -

Noise. Too much noise in his head.

The car they reached in the parking garage was a junker, some worn convertible something-or-other that had an interior which smelled like weed and Mexican food. Spike tried to inquire about the vehicle, but his words were slurring and his thoughts proved so fickle and skittish that even this suspicion all but fled him.

He got in the back seat and nearly passed out from the alcohol fumes. "Sh-sh-shix fah, fah-uh- -"

The driver pulled into gear before he could finish botching his address.

* * *

><p>The noise and rattling of city life, the burning blindness of traffic lights, the smell of car living all congealed into a singular sensory thrust aimed right at his gut. Sometimes the car sat still, and at other times it sped blindingly in a neck-snapping zigzag, tossing him to and fro. Spike couldn't discern enough through his nausea to know whether the driving was really as bad as it seemed to be, but he gripped the front seat deathly tight, hoping to steady himself and avoid slamming against the side window.<p>

To pass the time, he glanced about the interior of the car; the seats were covered in a blotchy faux-velvet colored like bloody puke, and the walls, black and curvaceous, heralded the 80's aesthetic of smooth, jazz, with a hint of glam. Somebody had watched Scarface a few too many times.

How long had they been driving? Spike tried to remember. Felt too long.

"The hell are we?" he asked, groggily, probably too quietly.

The driver said nothing, only making another sharp turn south. This is the wrong side of town, he realized. Too far south. A few of the streets looked familiar, and he knew, even in his addled state of mind, that these were not found on any path home.

"Hey."

The driver didn't twitch at the sound of him.

Spike hoisted himself forward, until he was nearly breathing down the man's neck. "Hey, you know where we're going?"

"Relax."

"Don't tell me to- -we're in the wrong part of the city, you ass, we should be going up Harbor- -"

Then, like a load of bricks, it hit him. Only every aspect of this scenario was completely _wrong,_ hell, it _screamed_ wrong, the unannounced visit, the driver with an accent in some cheap piece of junk, the drive into the opposite direction- -the medication steadily wore off, replacing his complacency with a red-hot understanding that this was suspicious as hell. The features of face in the rear-view mirror, the eyes, nose, mouth, hair, all cobbled together, at last Spike recognized as the face of... The face of...

Spike waited only until the car began to slow for a light to tear the door open and run.

The man yelped anxiously after him. "- -Oh, fuck! Wait! Wait!"

He ignored the barking and the swearing, the calls for him to return. All he could think was to propel himself forward onto the empty street, throwing one foot before the other, hoping, praying he'd be able to collapse somewhere hidden, just _get away._ In the cold, open air, he felt his consciousness whirl tornado-like in fear.

The next thing he felt was a car slamming into his back.

* * *

><p>"Oh my god!"<p>

When the screams first filtered through the darkness, they echoed in his eardrum murkily, like his head was submerged in water. He opened his eyes, but all that lay before him was the pavement, black and lightly glistening with blood. His lips scraped the black top as he tried to speak.

"Oh my god!"

Someone turned him over like a corpse, peeling him from the street and landing him hard on his back. He let out a groan, struggling to discern which colorful shadow was the one currently screaming for help. They moved in blurs before him, blots in his field of vision. He wanted to move, to say something, but bloody snot filled his lungs and his head pounded.

"Oh, god, is he- -hello, mister! Are you! He's bleeding, shit, I didn't see- -came out of nowhere- -"

"He's fine." A voice broke through the muddy night, clear and easily recognized. "Just a bit scraped up, see? He's waking up."

"Hold on, I'm calling an ambulance." Spike could hear this other voice better now; it was feminine, young, panicked.

But the man's voice rejoined, "No, no. It's fine."

At last, his eyes adjusted to the glare of the streetlights looming overhead. Piper stooped over him, poking, prodding, tugging at him. A little farther away, a college-aged woman, who, judging by her flashy dress, had been coming home from a club, looked anxiously on.

When the Russian saw that his stare was being returned, he patted Spike's cheek. "Hey, boss, gave us a scare," he crowed cheerfully.

Spike gurgled.

"Let's get up, ah?"

The woman wrung her hands. "You think that's a good- -"

"Help me, help me."

While Spike tried, and failed, to make noises that could be understood as words, in particular phrases like 'get away from me,' or 'touch me and die,' he felt two pairs of hands dig under his arms and heave him upwards. His feet dragged over the asphalt as they started pulling him toward the car, increasing the aggravation to his slurry attempts at human language. He wanted to escape, but his head whirled and leaked, and the muscles controlling his limbs had gone on strike, so, moaning and oozing and being touted about like a rag doll, he stood little chance.

"Here we go," Piper lilted, opening the door to the back seat. Together, he and the woman- -who by now was suspecting something was very wrong with this situation- -stuffed him inside the car. Spike responded by immediately passing out.

The woman tried to ask Piper if he was going to drive his friend to a hospital. But Piper ignored her and brought out an intimidatingly large set of hundred dollar bills. Without making eye contact, the Russian peeled out a handful, not bothering to count the amount, and shoved the cash into her shaking hand. "For your car," he said.

* * *

><p>In some sense, Spike was lucky. The pain medication had yet to completely wear off, so even as he cringed back into consciousness, rolling about the back seat and eventually tumbling into the footwell, he did not experience agony. Not perfectly, anyhow. Imperfect stabs of pain hit his bruised spine, his shredded palms, his bashed head. He shivered. In the rocking, musty darkness which smelled now of leather and old cigarettes, he wondered just how many times he was destined to have his skull kicked in this week.<p>

At first, he was stuck. His arms were wedged at his sides and he had to wriggle to free himself from the footwell, eventually hoisting himself back onto the seat, being careful not to get knocked down in the event of a sudden sharp turn.

The driver had returned to his business as if nothing significant had just occurred. Eventually, though, the man noticed he was awake and turned to him. "How you doin'?"

Spike answered by groaning. For some time, Spike stared slack-jawed at the back of the man's head, contemplating the ways in which he might smash it to make for another escape. But the thought of doing anything other than sitting frozen where he was felt _exhausting, _so he decided he'd rather focus on not passing out again. Squeezing his knees to press a waking pain up his aching legs, he forced his spine straight, until he sat rigid against the car seat. The vehicle rocked peacefully for now, though under the driver's guidance, it always seemed to be on the verge of disaster.

They didn't drive much longer. Suddenly, the driver turned into an abandoned lot lined with broken streetlights and chainlink fence. Without saying anything, the man climbed out, had a loud and foreign argument with someone on his cell phone for several minutes, and returned behind the wheel to speak plainly to his unwitting captive. This time, though, Spike didn't have to look at the back of the man's head; Piper turned in his seat, arms crossed along the divide between passenger and driver. Rat-face up front, eyes forward, prying, and disturbingly intent. "So, here we are," Piper announced, as if what he meant was obvious. "You got question?"

_One way to put it. _"Who the hell are you?"

"Not important."

"Okay. But you're not driving me to my apartment."

"True," Piper acknowledged.

"Then where?"

Rather than answer, Piper said, "Today, we gon' kill somebody."

The news wasn't terribly surprising. Spike stared.

"...You are, anyway. I get you where you need to be."

Spike numbly played along. "And who, pray tell, am I killing?"

"Like you don't know."

What was Spike supposed to say to that? He dragged his tongue along his bottom lip, normally a show of bloodlust, but now a newly-adopted nervous tic. His brain was roaring and hungry and lost, stitching together detached scenes and evidences. A man entering his room. A young woman flirting with him in a bar. Fred, trying to reassure him, then hugging him, then telling him he...

_Boxes, cold things, bars, sharp and flinty things, teeth and tongue._

He lied, and sounded cross doing so. "I don't."

"Radoslav."

The name echoed hollow. Unrecognized but for a brief, inconsequential memory.

"Fucked you up, didn't he?"

A buzzing sound built from inward, expanding into a scream piercing through his skull. He sucked in a breath, shut his eyes.

"Hey, boss, you hear what I say? We gon' kill the guy who fucked you- -"

Spike narrowly avoided falling headfirst onto the pavement.

* * *

><p>"- -Not again! Jesus. C'mon."<p>

After sprawling from the car, Spike landed on his hands and knees, and it took some considerable effort to work himself back onto his own two legs. He heard, to his distress, the sound of Piper exiting the driver-side door to circle the car and, no doubt, make an attempt at stuffing Spike back into the vehicle.

...His head felt light, soup-like. Something cold and serpentine wound its way down his back, leaving him sick with chills. "I d-don't- -" Spike stumbled helplessly about the lot. He suddenly growled and pointed accusingly in Piper's direction. "I don't _know_. I don't know who _you_ are, I don't know what the bleeding hell you're talking about; _I don't know goddamned anything!_"

Piper started to approach him, at which point Spike tried, and failed, to flee. One lunge for an exit, and the vampire tripped over himself.

"Jesus," Piper sighed, continuing to draw near. "Those drugs are kicking your ass."

Spike fumbled and crawled. Long, arduous labor brought him at last to the large chain-link fence surrounding the lot, and in his exhaustion, he gripped and leaned his weight against the barrier. He squinted as the night swirled in his vision. The bugger was right- -whatever cocktail of sedatives they had pumped into him was brutalizing his motor functions- -not that getting slammed by a car helped any- -but he couldn't stay here, he _wouldn't_. "I'm going home," he announced. Piper made a skeptical noise. The vampire started to claw along the fence and limp his way to what he thought might be the outside gate.

Piper decided to call attention to the obvious. "You not goin' nowhere like that, boss. You're sloshed."

"I'm not- -" Spike started, but his legs wobbled mid-sentence and he had to stop himself in order to regain his footing. He shut his eyes and breathed hard to hide his dizziness. "I'll get home, get some rest, be good as new."

"You don't want to kill him?"

"_Leave me alone_."

"You don't want to get him back?"

"Get _who_ back? For _what?_ This week's been a massive bloody blur, can't remember a thing, so how could I possibly- -"

Piper's voice rose out of the darkness, pungent and prying. "Nothing?"

"That's right. Can't recall a lick."

"Bullshit."

The retort was so blunt and final that Spike flew into another tantrum, kicking the black top and snarling hysterically. "What do you mean, 'bullshit'! How do _you_ know it's bullshit?"

Piper shrugged, seemingly unaffected by Spike's display. "Sounds like bullshit to me."

"The hell do you get off, you tosser!"

"Look, I don't care. Not my problem. But the guy _wrecked _you. Made you his bitch."

_La, la, la, can't hear you, I'm not lis-ten-ing._

"You gonna just let that go? You chickenshit?"

Spike turned and began to shriek. "Shut up! I'll kill you!" But he didn't get far even then; he fell on his knees, tried to clamber up by the chain link. He felt himself convulsing with rage.

"I'll tell Angel."

_No._

"I'll tell him where he is. What he did."

_No. Stop it._ He felt awash with weakness. He couldn't hold onto the fence; his fingers turned to numb, useless stubs.

Piper read his agony and could no longer contain his frustration. "You're a vampire. You should be happy. I'm telling you to kill someone."

Spike turned, stiff, arms locked at his sides. He glared into the darkness intensely, as if by looking at it he could somehow melt into it and disappear. He tried desperately to mimic its blankness, to make himself appear unreadable. But his Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and he could feel the Russian's eyes trailing along his profile and watching for tell-tale muscle twitches. Shivers moved along his spine.

"Small window of opportunity," Piper said, using a phrase he had obviously learned recently. "You know what that means, right? Like, a few hours. He's in one place, but not for long. And your people are probably already on us."

Spike wondered, if he stood here, how long it would take for the sun to take him.

"Look, see, I get it, it's all, like, real fast, maybe you think you need time to think this over, but we don't have time for that. It's now. So we have to go. Really, though, we doing each other a favor, ah?" His voice took on a strangely consoling tone, drenched in falsified compassion. "Just a little while, it'll be over. Yeah?"

Piper ended up waited for an answer that would never come; he sighed, checked his phone, then spent the final few minutes staring, watching the vampire look off in the distance. And though Spike never gave an affirmative, something in his posture must have signaled Piper, because the Russian, rather than taunt him any further, he pried a cigarette from his pocket and, between two trembling fingers, balanced it at his lip.

More to assure himself than his abducted partner-in-crime, he breathed and mumbled, "Just a little while, little while, it'll be over, _over,_ done-done-done." His black eyes followed the shadows cast by the rising tobacco smoke, and they watered slightly as he tugged the car door open. "Be fucking done, tell you _what_."

Spike heard him get in the car. Probably should have left, but he searched the inward strings, plucking and unwinding enough to find one, _one_, bloodied and hot enough to force action out of him. Revenge was sticky business, but there were worse entanglements in the world, he decided, even now, jagged and unprepared though he was.

Resigned, he turned to join the latest turn in fate.

* * *

><p>Wesley proudly surveyed the papers before him. It had taken all day to sort through the mess left behind by those who had kept his office running, but taking control of his domain had been well worth it, upkeep notwithstanding. <em>His domain<em>. His office. No screeching suits, no foreboding visits with clients. Here, in the comfort of his books and cavernous walls of paper, he felt nested and guarded.

But tonight, he decided, he would, for once, put aside work at a decent hour. Perhaps, he thought, he might dare to go home and get some decent sleep. To reward himself for such an indulgent thought, he stuffed his desk drawer closed, brought out a bottle of whiskey, and readied himself to pour a small drink, with which he planned a long, leisurely moment of peace.

...When the phone started the ring. He ignored it at first, until the phone rolled into a recorded message, which rumbled with a terrifyingly familiar voice.

"_Once again, it's your father, humbly requesting to speak with you... If you haven't anything __**better**__ to do, that is..._"

Wesley dropped his glass and dove. The phone clattered noisily into his grip. "H- -hello! Hello?"

"Wesley, are you there?"

"Yes- -yes! I- -" In a fit of mental chaos, Wesley sifted his papers into haphazard piles and sat back in his chair. "Sorry. It's just, you've never called before."

"Haven't I? I seem to recall leaving you a number of messages over the past few days, though I don't know why I bother; it seems you can't bother picking up your phone once in a while..."

Wesley, in his surprise, glanced at the office phone and saw that, indeed, a number of messages had been neglected. He wisely relented. "It's been a bit hectic around here."

"Your mother worries sick about you, you know."

_Guilt-tripping. _Wesley mentally checked a box. The typical pattern aside, Wesley noticed a tension to his father's voice. "Is something the matter?"

Roger proved his intuition correct with an overtly concealing, "Why would you say that?"

"Whatever it is must be especially dire, if it's pushed you to call me."

"There's no need to be smart. I can't speak to my own son if I wish?" The sound of fidgeting followed. "Though since you brought it up, there is something I'd like to ask. You know that the Watcher's Council has eyes and ears everywhere."

"Yes, but you've also been dissolved."

"Be that as it may," Roger said gruffly, "we still have contacts in many places, and they have recently reported some unsettling information. Have you happened to come across a Mendel?"

"Mendel?"

"Or, well, he tends to call himself Pavel. Not unusual- -changing the name to hide his heritage, you know..."

"Sorry, no... We haven't encountered anyone by that name."

Undeterred by Wesley's response, Roger continued to describe him. "He was recruited from Russia years ago- -supposed to be a gifted linguist of some sort or another."

"Recruited?"

"By the Watcher's Academy, yes."

"He was a Watcher-in-training."

"He spent _four months_ in the school before being expelled. I wouldn't call him as much as a _student_. Now as I was saying, we've been keeping an eye on him ever since- -But he's fallen in with some shady characters, and seeing as this is the sort of people you deal with now, I was wondering if you had any inkling- -"

As his father spoke, something in Wesley's head clicked. It was a strange connection, one that couldn't have dreamed of, but the name once more echoed through his brain, met a dormant phrase sunk in the recess of his memories, and all at once, he knew what was happening. "He's in Los Angeles."

There was a tremendous pause on the other end of the line. "How did you know that...? Wesley?"

"Call it intuition."

Roger's voice tensed again. "...Has something happened?"

"No... No! But... What 'shady characters' has this person fallen in with, exactly...?"

Out in the lobby, security personnel spilled out of the elevator, gathering outside Angel's office. Excited buzzing from walkie-talkies filled the floor.

Wesley gawked at them, momentarily distracted, and, with the phone gripped tightly in his hand, nearly choked when a name burned in his ear.

* * *

><p>"- -Sorry, would- -would you say that again?"<p> 


	11. Book 2, Chapter 2: Premeditated

**Book 2 - Chapter 2: Premeditated**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So if you're wondering what's up, I've had a full-time job (in a foreign country, of all things), which is why I haven't had much time to get around to writing. But hey, still working on this, so I might as well publish what I have, right? Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Piper liked demons. He knew this made him different from most people- -most people didn't know demons <em>existed,<em> and he doubted they would like demons much even if they did. But he was used to being different. As long as he could remember, he walked the world at a slightly-off angle, not terribly skewed, but just enough to keep him from thinking, acting, or being normal. Enough to make other children leave him alone; enough for his family members to whisper to one another behind his back.

He didn't remember minding this when he was a child, but when he reached the age we all reach- -the one in which we begin to desire friends and relationships- -he found few candidates for comrades. He didn't understand people. People were bossy and judgmental and hard to read.

But he liked demons.

There were three things he liked especially.

First, they didn't hide their emotions. They lied, yes, but not the way people do- -people will smile and say hello even if they don't like you, tell you they're fine when they're not. Demons don't care to hide their feelings. If they're angry, they smash a table. If they're sad, they- -well, often they'll smash a table then, too. Either way, they don't express things in layers or euphemisms. Piper liked this because he, too, obeyed emotional impulses regardless of their consequences, and he liked being able to tell what others were feeling in clear, visceral ways.

Second- -and this is related to the first reason- -he liked the honesty. There were no white lies to maintain politeness. Demons blab. You're fat, you're ugly, you stink, I don't like you, shut up, I think you're boring, this is boring, let's do something else, I don't to talk I just want to sleep with you.

Third, there was no judgment. People cared immensely if you started to curse a blue streak in the wrong situation, or if you yawn too obviously, or if you fidget. He was used to a lot of Pavel, stop that, Pavel, will you sit for _two minutes_, Pavel, what the hell is wrong with you, _Pavel, for God's sake_. Demons, on the other hand, obliged him for all his eccentricities. They usually found them entertaining.

And, fourth- -that's right, there was a fourth reason, he always forgot- -demons wanted him. To people, he was ugly and weird. Not relationship material. But if you didn't blush at the sight of unfortunately-placed spikes and could take a beating once in a while, demons would gladly take you.

* * *

><p>He wasn't, however, much of a fan of vampires.<p>

Demons had their part in projecting their prejudices onto him. _Blood rats. Half-breeds. Stinky, smelly bloodsuckers. _But he also thought they were too human. They had nuance- -unpredictability. That one quality brought them out of the realm of animal instinct and into the dizzying landscape of reason and emotion.

So Spike didn't do the reputation of his species any favors in Piper's eyes when he came barging in, cursing, pushing demons around, and generally being a complete buzzkill.

Really, it was completely uncalled for. Piper just wanted to have a few minutes at a party, have a few bumps, and drink a beer or two, all for the extremely relevant purpose of burning off some anxiety. He knew a few of the demons in the peeling, crumbling house- -that was how he knew about the party in the first place- -and the rest of the demons occupying the various rooms were so strung out, so oozing and twitching with mind-altering substances, that none of them appeared to notice or mind that a human slipped among them.

He had since planted himself on a sagging couch, cutting and snorting lines on a glass table while some reality show played on a flickering television. A snot-gray Blixar demon- -whom he wholly ignored, and who wholly returned the favor- -draped over the other end of the couch, snorting and occasionally yelling epithets and hurling beer bottles at the television set.

Scratchy laughter and ear-scraping music blared. Spike had hopped over several passed out bodies and threatened to bite off the faces of several other, more conscious demons before making it to this corner of the derelict place.

When he spotted Piper, his eyes went red. "_There_ you bloody are."

Piper didn't have to look up to communicate his displeasure; he slumped over the table, sighing loudly.

"The hell have you- -" Spike saw the lines of cocaine and visibly gnawed the inside of his cheek for frustration. "Oh! Having fun, are you?"

Piper gave a dismissive, irritated hand-wave. "I told you it just be a minute."

"Yeah, you did. _Thirty minutes ago_."

Piper's face contorted slightly, revealing his obliviousness.

"...Not to judge your extra-curriculars, but you did mention we're short on time. So how about you wrap up your little tea party and we get a move on?"

Spike thought he had made himself clear. He paused. Waited.

Piper, rather than change modes, tightened his arm muscles, grumbled something, and started to cut another line.

"- -_Well_?!"

"Okay, yeah, heard you! Jesus! Don't have to be a bitch about it."

* * *

><p>By the time they got back to the car, their opinions of one another had solidified.<p>

Fortunately, they would not have to endure each other much longer. Piper, after one additional phone call, appeared to know where he was headed, and so without saying anything to Spike, he settled into his path.

At first Spike thought they could remain contented in the ensuing silence, listening only to the city's ambiance and the purr of evening traffic. But after some time, Piper showed signs of boredom and agitation, which led to a click and a blast of music so loud and sudden that Spike, for a split second, believed World War III had kicked off with a bang.

Spike seized, sputtered, and cursed in Piper's direction.

"What?"

"_No,_" was Spike's agonized response, like the very existence of sound pained him.

"Dr. Dre is the shit."

Spike switched it off, his head throbbing, and managed to groan out, "_No music_."

"You always this prissy?"

The vampire privately contemplated what consequence, if any, would exist should he succumb to temptation and kill the man now.

Piper must have read his death-gaze. "...Fine. No music." He rolled down the driver's side window and draped his arm casually outside. This gesture of resignation only lasted a few seconds; in the midst of driving, he broke the silence by rapping his knuckles against the car's glossy exterior.

Despite the headache, Spike started to realize he, too, was too much on edge to put up with a quiet drive. Awkward polite conversation it was, then. He sighed. "Well, if we're going to be accomplices, suppose we ought to introduce ourselves proper."

Knuckles still on the door- -_bum bum bum_. "I know who you are. You're Spike."

Spike folded his arms tightly against his chest. "Right. And you?"

"I'm Piper."

"That your real name?"

"Is 'Spike' yours?"

A pause, a moment of introspection. Spike frowned at being so easily thwarted and thinly answered, "Fair enough."

_Ba-bum_. "Hey. You're English, right?" Piper turned, expecting a verbal response, but didn't look bothered when Spike sat stoic and silent. "I lived in England a while back. Had mates out there."

Spike nodded but inwardly cringed. He _hated_ morons like this- -foreigners who thought strutting about waving the Union Jack entitled them to putting on exaggerated accents and styles. Anglophile wankers, the lot of them. "Uh-huh."

"Man, I miss it. Scene was bold, bruv- -naw'mean?"

'Bruv'? Spike cringed once more and cemented his brow against the glass. Not only was this twerp an Anglophile, but also, apparently, a complete, utter chav. _Yup. Died and I'm in Hell._

"Had to bounce, though. Usual bullshit."

"Uh-huh." Piper turned to give him an unimpressed glare.

"That all you say? 'Uh-huh'?"

"Yeah, 'cause you're a _riveting_ conversationalist- -"

"God! No wonder."

They pulled to a stop at a light, giving Spike some time to consider his options. It was so obviously a trap. So obviously a ploy. But he bit anyway. "No wonder _what_?"

"Nothing, just..." Piper pretended not to want to say. "What's your boss's name?"

"Angel. And he's not my boss."

"Whatever. I just saying. I can see why he was in no rush to get you back."

Spike wasn't trapped in Hell. No, he had been airdropped into _Mean Girls._ He fumbled his response with some mix of 'whatever' and 'shut up' and 'twat,' and started pulling on the door handle again, because at this point maybe kissing another bumper would get his head on straight. But the door wouldn't give and suddenly he felt, more powerfully than anything, the desire to leave. The car was too small there wasn't enough room or air or anything, not enough air, can't breathe, _can't breathe_.

What was he moving _toward?_ Where was this vessel hurtling him at such alarming speed, before the rawness had healed, before the meat on his bones had learned to stand again?

"Do you want a beer?" Piper wondered aloud, as if forgetting his own hostility. "I could really go for beer. When it's over, yeah?"

* * *

><p>Spike changed his mind.<p>

Not that it would do him any good. Not that changing his mind changed anything else.

But he decided, clearly, he'd rather stay in the car.

They arrived at a hotel- -a large one, with a glitzy, shiny feel at its exterior. Spike couldn't say he was surprised. The location had style and class. No gang-lord or wealth-saturated politician worth their salt would stoop to a dwelling any lesser.

For now, though, the car rumbled in the parking garage, a place of relative neutrality.

Piper, who had been waiting, lost his patience. "He's on the eighth floor- -room 810. Go ahead."

Spike frowned and glanced out the window. "Uh..."

"I get off here. So, go on."

Spike didn't move.

"What is it?"

"I..." Spike, feeling immensely weak, clasped his neck to strangle his panting. Everything whirled. "... No, 'course not. Never mind." _Alone. I have to go in alone. I have to go up the lift and walk to hall and look him in the face, talk long enough to convince him to invite me in._ He was going to hurl.

"Come on," Piper pressed, about ready to kick him out of the vehicle. "I got shit to do."

"Weapon." The word sprang to Spike's mouth before he could think to form a proper sentence. He sat up. "I- -should have a weapon."

"Not much use. Probably has guard. They'll search you after you get off the lift. Figured you'd bite him to death or..."

He was frail, tired, disoriented. Killing with his bare hands would normally be simple, but now, he needed the assurance, the back-up of a sharp blade.

"Well, whatever. You figure it out. Good luck." For a second, he paused, looking pensive. He licked his lips and offered, "Kick ass."

"Uh. Thanks. I guess." Spike exited the car and, for reasons unknown to him, felt compelled to awkwardly turn and say, "See you."

Piper responded by blinking, tilting his head in momentary confusion, and waving back. He sounded- -almost- -concerned. "Yeah. See you."

He watched the car go.

* * *

><p>In the lobby, he nearly lost the strength to go on. He stood there, staring at the gilded walls with gaudy wallpaper, the shiny, brass tables, the velveteen chairs. The lobby was enormous, a brightly-lit cave with a towering ceiling, every tap and click echoing with booming enthusiasm. Behind the glinting front reception desk, a young woman in repressed attire fretted busily with letters and receipts.<p>

He must have watched her for some minutes, and she had yet to even notice his presence.

_Well_, he thought, _'s now or never_.

He trekked his way across the fine carpet, feet dragging as he went. The receptionist still didn't see him. Just as well. He found the line of elevators, each sparkling like a well-brushed tooth. In a gesture more forced than deliberate, he slapped a button to summon the lift.

_His eyes went blurry. When he stepped in, all he could hear was the clack-clack of the receptionist neatening her papers, and the death knell of the elevator's movement._

* * *

><p>Spike wondered if Angel had noticed he was gone yet. Whether the team was scuttling and mobilizing. When the doors of the elevator rolled open, a scroll of sheet metal unfolding his destination, he imagined them, rising, hurrying, grabbing. The busyness of their actions felt foreign to him now, as he slogged- -as if through mud- -toward a deceitfully simple-looking door.<p>

810.

He planted his feet there. They turned rigid and stone-like. There was a buzzing starting at the back of his brain, like static, that proceeded to roar, grow in intensity, drown out the sound of his nervous, impulsive breathing.

This was stupid. Radoslav would recognize him. He would look at him and know who he was, so why would he ever invite him inside? It was insanity.

Since he couldn't bring himself to knock, and was in fact ready to turn heel and run with his tail between his legs, he noticeably jumped when the door opened.

The chain lock strained from pull, and just behind the entrance, a nondescript man peered out. The man was pale-eyed, nearly frozen in place but for his eyeballs, which scrolled ceaselessly in a searching manner, looking him up and down. He didn't speak, but a question was definitely being implied.

"I have an appointment," Spike told him, his voice coming out unintentionally quiet, almost faint.

The man grunted, and before Spike had a chance to elaborate, closed the door.

He very nearly decided to leave then, but he could hear speaking from inside- -quick, foreign, cutting- -and in no time at all, the door opened again, this time without the chain. It opened smoothly until it lay completely ajar, but the guard, his eyes still squarely on him, gave him no hint as to what he was expected to do.

So Spike waited. The man said nothing, but stared at him, door open with only the faintest implication of invitation.

He started to panic. Running into the barrier would immediately betray his identity, but insisting on being invited would bring on its own suspicion. His mind raced to think of an excuse, to pry out a phrase vague enough to prompt something- -he couldn't think- -just felt the squeeze of unconsciousness around the rims of his eyes- -

A voice inside, identifiable as Radoslav's, spoke up in a blasé manner. "Come in."

* * *

><p>As Piper suggested would happen, Spike didn't enter the apartment undisturbed. The man guarding the door promptly shoved him against a wall, prying into his pockets and about his waist. Apparently satisfied, the guard pushed him once more, this time through the hallway and into the living space.<p>

Spike, trying to put on an offended look, dusted himself off and took in his surroundings. The apartment filled what seemed to be an impossible amount of space, in swooping shapes and angles, its white walls, its full-glass paneled walls overlooking the blinking twilight city. It had modernity to the point of being garish, with expensive art hanging on the walls and designer sofas. Spike wondered what he had expected. An evil lair? A moat with crocodiles, organ music, burning torches, the skulls of children lining the walls? Everything was pristine, gleaming, minty. The place smelled like cologne and incense.

He still didn't see Radoslav. He gingerly made his way into the open space, gravitating toward the living room opposite a glinting open-air kitchen. A shelf at the near wall caught his momentary attention, with a display of photographs in frames- -a shockingly standard decoration, he had to admit. The pictures themselves were even more banal... Featuring photogenic smiles, in photogenic places, many of them featuring a young, dark-haired woman, her arm circling Radoslav's waist in a strangely...

"Sorry for the wait."

Spike could feel the hairs on his arm stiffen. He nearly froze, unable to turn to face him, but he knew he had to. Had to look comfortable. Had to imitate someone at ease with their surroundings.

So he swiveled, muttered an awkward, "No problem," and let his eyes swoop tentatively in Radoslav's direction.

To his surprise, Radoslav looked neither well nor threatening. He stood overshadowed by the kitchen, which was elevated a few thin steps above the living room where Spike stared back at him, and even this hair's breadth of height didn't make the crime lord seem any larger. He was hunched over, dressed semi-casual and somewhat harried, and everything in his speech, smell, and movement betrayed intoxication. Even his face, which normally had murder in every muscle of his expression, was softened by detachment, and by light of this living space, almost looked vulnerable and tired.

He was only a few yards away.

Spike waited for Radoslav to move down from the kitchen, all the while telling himself _don't move, don't flinch, keep your feet where you are_. But Radoslav didn't.

He did, however, turn to his bodyguard. "Leave us alone."

The guard looked surprised by this order, but did not verbalize any objection. He simply nodded and moved toward the door.

"So." Finally, he took one step down. Spike braced his legs in place. "Let's talk business."

Spike normally would have lauded a man for forgoing the niceties of small-talk, but the reality of everything must have caught up with him, because in a shaky, panicky motion, he gestured for the photographs in front of him and tried to sound casual. "Girlfriend?"

"Hmm?" Radoslav paused where he stood, still agonizingly _close_ and _far_, saw what he pointed to, then shook his head. "Oh, no. Sister."

Right. Sister.

Radoslav had family, friends, a life.

Up until now, Spike had envisioned Radoslav abstractly, as a side-bit character at best and a disfigured monster at worst. But he was a man. Human. Filled to the brim with human dreams and worries and lusts. Not a vampire, not a demon or werewolf, not any other nasty that could be slayed and forgotten.

He would have a body.

His sister would have to identify the remains.

There was likely going to be a funeral.

Radoslav, drunk enough to reveal such personal information, prattled on, "Lives with her little girl downtown."

Scratch that- -a sister and a niece.

Radoslav was level to him now, and started to move in a broad circle around him and toward the crystal table at the center of the living room. Spike couldn't help but envision it as a threatening movement, like a wolf circling its prey. "How about you? Family?"

"N-no, not really."

The man pulled forward two glasses; before Spike could reject any offer of a drink, Radoslav brought out an expensive bottle of sherry and started to serve it.

"I've got a- -er- -brother," Spike babbled, not sure why he felt the need to explain himself. "Other than that, though..."

"It is hard," Radoslav acknowledged, very solemnly pouring Spike a glass. "A man needs family." He must have noticed Spike's intentional distance, because he waved. "Please, sit."

_Be natural_. He forced his legs to move in stride, coming closer, closer, until he could smell him, see the pores and hairs on him. He sat and took his drink, carefully avoiding any touch. The glass was cold and hard in his hand. _Tumbler,_ he mentally checked. _Hard. First blow._

Radoslav huffed and plunged into a seat opposite of him, splashing some of his drink onto his shirt in the process. "Do I know you?" Radoslav suddenly burbled, scratching his brow between greasy links of hair. "I could swear I know you."

Racing thoughts. _How to respond? Redirect? Deny?_

Radoslav did the work for him. "Where do you work now?"

Spike's eyes fell onto the tabletop to his left. He pretended to be examining a small sculpture. It was sharp, sturdy-looking. _Could work_. Not looking Radoslav in the face, he slowly pronounced his answer. "Wolfram and Hart."

"Wolfram- -oh, I remember now!" Radoslav snapped his finger in excitement. He guffawed. "I knew I recognized you."

Spike's fingers went numb. He placed them on the surface of the table, endured an agonizing moment when he couldn't swallow or speak.

"Wolfram and Hart?" Radoslav opened his hand in an urging gesture, trying to make Spike recall along with him. "I was there for a meeting-we spoke briefly in the hallway?"

Spike's mind clicked along.

"You should have reminded me," the man teased. "I'm terrible with faces." Radoslav flushed the rest of his drink into his mouth, and for some unimaginable time afterward, did nothing but blather about business models and war, money and kingdoms, manhood and the search for meaning in a cold, unfeeling universe.

Knowing that Radoslav would continue regardless of what he did, Spike put down his drink and stood to his feet. He wandered over to the pane-glass walls that overlooked Los Angeles.

The night was clear. The lights from the landscape winked in slow, lazy movements, the cars ran down channels like fish crowding streams, and for a brief moment, he felt all thoughts of revenge flee in the face of a crushing one in their place: _The stars tonight are so beautiful_. And the Poet wondered, _if they fell now, what would this matter_?

Still, the Animal won out that night, budging its way into his unbeating heart, driving him to the kitchen while Radoslav babbled his drunken platitudes, and so there he found an appropriate knife, which shone as silver and brilliant as a comet's tail.


	12. Book 2, Chapter 3: Crime Passionnel

**Book 2 - Chapter 3: Crime Passionnel**

* * *

><p><strong>"When there is pain, there are no words. All pain is the same." - Toni Morrison<strong>

* * *

><p>Everything had gone perfectly.<p>

The young man pulled the car into park, right outside his date's apartment complex. Their evening took every necessary turn: the laughter, smiles, the emotional connection. Even a brush of a hand against his.

She smiled meekly as she gathered her purse at her shoulder. "Well, this is it."

"Yeah."

"I had a really nice time."

"Me too," he said plainly, hoping this was leading up to something. "We should do it again sometime, huh?"

"Yeah."

The response was non-committal, but neither did it forbid anything; his heart skipped with its promise. Though her head tilted for the window, hinting at her departure, he leaned in, let a small breath spill onto the smooth surface of her neck- -

_Crash_.

The noise and impact was like nothing he had ever experienced. In that moment, he thought they had been plowed into by a truck.

His date, completely on impulse, let out a shriek of surprise. They untangled then went strangely quiet; the car rattled from impact, the windshield shattered, the springs groaning. The only other sound for the next minute was their gasping.

Finally, when he was certain they were both alive, he sputtered, "The_ hell_?"

His date's eyes followed small trickles of blood spatter lining the cracks in the windshield. The crimson oozed, flowed like rivers, spun webs in the glass.

"Holy shit," he said quietly, then, after craning his head out his window, a louder, more desperate, "Holy _shit!_"

* * *

><p>The scene Angel watched unfold brought back memories of his detective days; the splash of siren lights over cold cement, the buzzing of radios, the detectives swarming over evidence. He stood back for a beat, taking in this familiar dance, before being interrupted by a factor not present when he was private citizen: police cooperation.<p>

"Angel? Sir?"

He blinked, came into the present. "Uh?"

"Come on through." The officer, earnest and young, waved him beneath the yellow tape. He had a somewhat nervous air to him, like he wasn't sure how to treat the new guest. "Your people are here already."

"Right." Angel took a hesitant glance backward, wondering when Wesley would manage to elbow his way through the crowd of gawkers swinging camera phones in the air. "I- -okay." He ducked under. "What do we have?"

"Homicide," the detective stated blandly, still avoiding casting the word in the direction of the onlookers. "Remains are this way. They said it's one of yours?"

As they spoke, they wound around a series of glittering ambulances and cop cars, which circled tightly on one area of the lot. They drew closer and Angel could see why the vehicles so strategically obscured the view: a single white sheet drawn over an indistinct lump, stained with blood.

Puzzled by his lack of response, the detective fidgeted to a stop on the cement. "Was it... Someone you knew?"

Angel didn't answer the question. He stared at it from afar, and then said, "I'd like to see it."

"Oh. Of course." The walk to the body felt like it took ages, even if it was only a few measly yards. Angel couldn't fathom why. The jitters forming at his skin, the faint blur in his vision- -irrational. There was only one possibility here, and he knew it. The body could only belong to one person in this equation... And it wasn't unwelcome news. Then why the pit in his stomach? Was it the sense of _the end_ that he hated? The prospect of this being finished?

When they reached the sheet, Angel was struck by the size of the lump. It was tiny. Maybe the size of a football. "...Ah."

"Yup," the detective chimed in, sharing his distaste. "We haven't found the rest of him yet, but, at least it's the right part for an ID."

The sheet fell back. It was Radoslav- -his head, anyway. Mangled and battered from the fall, but still recognizably Radoslav.

"Do we know where he came from?"

The detective pointed upward. "Fell onto a civilian's car. Gave them quite a scare."

Angel looked up. Windows, bright and golden, lined the upper horizon like stars.

"Your people are searching the building as we speak," said the detective. "They'll call as soon as they get anything."

"Maybe I can- -"

Before Angel could say anything else, the captain reacted to noise coming from his headset. He blinked, pressed a finger to his ear, and looked Angel in the eyes. "Some people in the hotel report hearing a gunshot about fifteen minutes ago. They're looking into it."

When Angel broke eye contact to look behind him, he could see, in the distance, his friends lined up at the outskirts, all looking intent. Fred waved. Quietly to himself, he started to rehearse what he would say to them to convince them not to go in. _It would just be better. It might be ugly. It might be... I think I ought to go in alone. Well, not alone, there'll be the security team- -_

"We have the go-ahead. Do you need anything before we head up?"

He leaned in the others' direction nervously. "Just one minute."

* * *

><p>The apartment had no traditional signs of a struggle. No upturned tables, no items smashed on the floor. Angel could immediately smell the blood, but he couldn't discern the direction it came from; it was only when he stepped down into the living area that he noticed the pool formed behind a sofa. The air here was warm, eerie, and held the familiar scent of Spike and viscera.<p>

Armed squad members pushed past him. In several efficient sweeps, they determined that, first, a gunman lay dead in the living room, throat sliced; second, Radoslav had been dragged into the kitchen before his untimely demise; and, finally, Spike apparently wasn't satisfied in making only one room a crime scene.

One squad member whistled aloud and lifted a limb from under a coffee table. "Well, let's see. Left leg, looks like..."

"...Right arm over here," hollered another from the hallway.

"Torso's in the kitchen," said yet another.

As they began to piece the limbs together in some macabre puzzle, the squad leader noticed Angel standing in the doorway, taking it all in. He tried to lift his boss's mood a bit by quipping,"Not to complain, but if he had to dismember the guy, couldn't he have at least kept the pieces in one place? Make clean-up less of a pain?" By Angel's stoic expression, the man could tell he wasn't humored. "...Just saying. Quick worker, though," he marveled. "Kill couldn't have been twenty minutes ago."

As fascinating as watching the crew work might be, Angel could not throw off his persistent nerves. Tapping his foot and scanning the apartment, he at last blurted impatiently, "Well? Is he here?"

The men appeared both confused and startled by his outburst; they looked at each other, bloody limbs in hand.

"Are we even looking?"

One fiddled with their lapel nervously. "I think- -"

* * *

><p>Commotion suddenly broke out in another room: there were shouts and the sounds of a door being smashed in, and as men hurried to the narrow hallway, Angel threw enough weight around to plow through anyone standing in his way. He barked and yelled and, in general, used every means available to make it known that <em>he wanted in first, dammit<em>. And though he didn't technically make it- -by the time he wrestled to the doorway, several men, including the squad leader, stood in a semi-circle inside the bedroom- -most of the squad promptly moved aside to let him through.

The door still creaked on its broken hinge; the shouting had stopped, leaving an eerie, perplexing silence. Angel looked inside.

Spike was sitting at the edge of the bed. Blood soaked the cover, seeped and gummed the floor; it had spilled and dripped from the peak of his head, as if it had been dumped on him. He didn't look- -anything, really. Not confused or upset or angry. Not even relieved. He casually turned his eyes on them, but didn't maintain contact long before sighing and looking away again.

"Give him room," the squad leader barked. He swept his arm against the doorway, ushering everyone back to the other side. "_Give him room_."

Once they all retreated, no one seemed immediately certain about what to do. The amount of blood suggested another body part was nearby, and had been tossed about the room, rolled on the bedsheets, painted on the walls. They scanned the room visually, hoping to find it, and maybe the weapon used to liberate said body part from the rest of Radoslav's corpse. But nothing was in plain sight.

They waited for Spike to say something, perhaps volunteer some illuminating information. But he neither moved nor spoke.

The captain waved a man holding a black duffel bag through the doorway, and immediately, the worker stepped through, positioned himself kneeling next to the bed, and unzipped said bag.

Angel took a step forward, ignoring the squad leader's look of annoyance. "Spike."

The blonde locked gazes with a lamp on the opposite side of the room.

"Spike," Angel rambled, undeterred by his silence. "What- -" He was about to ask _what happened,_ before realizing it was a stupid question. He shook his head and changed his words. "Look, we'll get you out of here- -"

"Um." The kneeling man brought out a flashlight and flicked its shine against his hand. "You really ought to wait outside, sir."

"Why?" Angel asked this fairly obnoxiously, then, upon seeing the case of medical equipment, moved more viciously into a demanding, "Who are you?"

"I'm trained as an EMT," the man explained. "I do on-site evaluations. Checking vitals- -"

"He doesn't _have _vitals."

"For God's sake," the squad leader huffed, intervening and shoving him back. "Let the man do his job! It'll take five minutes."

Angel stiffened, as if ready for a fight, but the squad leader called his bluff and patted him on the shoulder. "Why don't you go take a breather outside?"

Not even commenting on the irony of telling a vampire to 'take a breather,' Angel bit the inside of his cheek and left. In the living room, he paced a while before throwing open the balcony door.

* * *

><p>Only when he stepped out onto the balcony did he realize this was the launching point- -the place where, in some gesture of desperation or insanity, Spike had hurled his proof of victory. Angel leaned over the black wire gate, and saw, far below, the pinpoints that he knew were people gathered on the street. He could make out, too, the white sheet hiding the head at its point of landing. Angel peered down at the floor and found blood smearing his shoes.<p>

He muttered a curse and scuffed his soles.

On the other side of the glass door, he intently observed the clean-up crew mopping up blood and dragging body pieces into the living room. What would be police procedures here? Would they look the other way, or would there be more complications ahead? He was sure Gunn had tried to explain it before, but he could only take so much legal-ese because his eyes glazed over. They would figure it out. Whatever it took.

The air didn't calm him; when his phone rang several minutes into his "breather," he jerked and fumbled it into his hands.

Wesley was on the other end. "Angel, we were wondering when we ought to come up."

"Uh, you know, I think it might be..." He failed to find the right turn of phrase. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Is there a problem?"

"It's... A little messy," Angel said, letting the dry humor of the understatement wash over him. He watched as two men placed an arm in a garbage bag. "Might take a while to clean up."

"And Spike?"

"Spike."

"Yes," Wesley repeated, sounding worried. "_Spike_. Is he there?"

"Oh. Yeah, he's here, but- -" He allowed his voice to trail off momentarily; he turned to get his mind off the carnage. "I don't know."

Wesley naturally slid into his consoling, arbitrating voice. "Explain it to me."

"They just swept in- -some emergency technician or something, pushed me out of the room before I had a chance to say anything. He said five minutes; it's been _more_ than five minutes, it's been- -"

There was a loud knocking sound. Startled, Angel turned to see the technician rapping his knuckles against the glass pane door and gesturing with a thumbs-up.

"Um," Angel said. He waved back and mumbled into the phone. "Never mind; I'll be down in a few minutes, okay? Wait for me."

Wesley didn't sound terribly encouraged, but agreed, "See you soon."

* * *

><p>The EMT politely informed him that Spike, who had up to this point been in some form of shock preventing him from speaking, finally became verbal a minute ago.<br>"He's cleaning up now." He handed Angel a package of clean clothes. "Hopefully they're his size. Commander says we're out in fifteen, by the way."

Angel meekly accepted the package. "Can I talk to him?"

The EMT at first offered a blank stare, then repeated, "Like I said. He's cleaning up in the master bathroom. You can wait for him in there." He pointed to the bedroom, which now featured a man in a smock placing Spike's bloodied clothes in a garbage bag.

Angel, not feeling useful at the moment, decided to take the worker's advice and wandered into the bedroom, eventually setting down the clothes and trying to find a seat. He nearly sat on the bed before remembering it was sodden with entrails. He resorted to pacing the room instead. The room was, like the rest of the apartment, surprisingly undisturbed, aside from the blood smearing the bed cover and floor. The lamps at the end tables were upright, and small, delicate decorations remained unharmed on the dressers and bookshelves. Pictures. Figurines of indeterminable origin- -some vaguely Asian in appearance. Angel absently pulled a book and leafed through it to distract himself from his nerves. But the book was in German, and his German was pretty rough as it was. He recognized the title and the author, though- -the infamous work, with perhaps the most intriguing opening sentence in all Western literature- -_Als Gregor Samsa eines Morgens aus unruhigen Träumen erwachte..._

He sighed and put the book back.

Once he decided he could take no more waiting, he took up the clothes and approached the bathroom.

"Spike?" Angel knocked on the door.

He couldn't hear anything at first. A small slap of water, a squeak of wet porcelain, then nothing more.

"I'm coming in."

With no objection coming from inside, Angel finally followed through on his threat and opened the door.

Inside, he saw what could be mistaken for an arranged scene of some kind: bloody footprints on earth-tone tile; red; water filling the tub and tinted a sharp pink; a white corpse submerged, its neck painted with the long trails of scratches- -evidence of a struggle.

Evidently coming out of his catatonic state, reanimated perhaps by the warmth of the water, Spike bitterly tugged on the shower curtain and muttered, "Bloke can't get any privacy?"

The shyness was both out of character and misplaced, but Angel vaguely averted his eyes anyway. "I brought fresh clothes. We have to be out of here in ten minutes, so rinse off and get dressed."

Upon hearing this, Spike let out a moan and started to slide his way under the rosy water.

"...Or they could drag you downstairs naked. I guess that's up to you."

Maybe the joke was in poor taste. Spike didn't show any particular offense. He did, however, give the clothes in Angel's hand a side-ways and disapproving look.

"Where's my coat?"

"Your coat?"

Spike gave him a sour glare.

"I don't know," Angel said, sighing impatiently. "I'd guess they're throwing it out with everything else."

"I _want_ my _coat_."

"Fine. I'll- -see if they can't send it to the cleaners. Get the blood out. But for now- -"

"Yeah. Got it."

With the blood and water mixing on the floor tile, Angel decided to set the clothes on the sink. He almost left, but he didn't know when he would next have a chance to talk to Spike. For all he knew, they planned on whisking Spike away for some interrogation or debriefing. He tried to sound at least a little concerned. "Are you hurt?"

"No." Spike had the self-awareness to sound embarrassed by the question. "Wasn't exactly an epic battle, you know. He was drunk. Didn't even recognize me."

"Then... I mean, did he..." Angel pointed out the scratches at Spike's throat.

Spike shook and jerked. "N-no," he fumbled out quickly. "I lost my head." He paused, echoing to himself, marveling in its poetic parallelism, "_lost my head_." He brought a hand to his throat in claw-like pose, scratching the air in memory. Spike seemed too ashamed to verbally confess inflicting the wounds on himself, but the unconscious gesture made it apparent.

Angel decided to move past it. "Where's Piper?"

This time, there was a pause implying real hesitation. Then Spike blinked, expression blank and unyielding. "Who?"

"I know he brought you here," Angel contradicted. "Now where'd he go?"

Spike wavered, turned his head side-to-side, and then shrugged, as if throwing off any obligation to explain.

Angel sighed harshly. "Spike, we're going to find him, there's no point in protecting him- -"

"I'm not _protecting_ anyone," Spike shot back. He slapped one greasy hand onto the edge of the tub. Red water slipped over the edge, dribbling over the shocking white. "I have to get dressed; if you don't mind?"

* * *

><p>To Angel's genuine surprise, he was allowed to stay with Spike. He was not, however, allowed to reconvene with the others- -too much potential for exposure, they said. They'd relay any message he had for them, they said. Angel begrudgingly accepted these terms and bid the others go home. It was inhumanly late, after all, and it was about time they got some rest.<p>

To avoid media attention, a non-descript car rolled up inside the parking garage, and before Angel could think to say anything, his security disappeared from his side and a chauffeur opened the door for them.

Angel watched Spike wince his way into his seat, and had to pick up a slipper that slid from Spike's foot and onto the pavement. The younger vampire cursed and accepted it back. "Couldn't get me a proper pair o' shoes, could you?"

"Sorry."

By wresting the thing back onto his foot, Spike implicitly accepted the apology, too.

They were driven for only a few minutes- -though Angel, had he not been obsessively checking his watch, would have sworn it was hours- -and already the silence got to be uncomfortable. Angel let out intermittent coughs and clearings of his throat; Spike, with nothing to add, passed the time by picking at his teeth. Angel got the courage to turn for a moment, look at him, realize how terrible he looked, and stammer to shut out such thoughts, "So. Did Piper... say anything to you? What he wanted?"

Spike sighed, sounding very bored. "Still on that? What's it matter?"

"We found out Piper was working for Radoslav."

No response- -just continued picking at his teeth.

"So? Anything come to mind?"

Spike shrugged and finally confessed what Angel already knew. "No clue. He dropped me off, is all."

"He has some angle in all this. Wesley's looking into his background- -thinks maybe there's some connection to another cartel."

But Spike wasn't interested in untangling the conspiracy at hand; he let out another sigh and leaned into the car door. "Are you going to kill me?"

"What?" Angel turned in confusion, trying to read Spike's face, but in the obscuring dark it was impossible. "What are you talking about?"

"I killed someone."

"Oh." He finally understood what he meant, though it remained an odd question. They always had an unspoken agreement to eliminate the other should either Angelus or William the Bloody make an unexpected return. Angel swallowed back his horror. "No, of course not..."

"Killed someone else, too," Spike said, as if suddenly remembering. "The bodyguard- -"

"It was self-defense."

"How do you know?"

"...What else would it be?"

Spike turned his head this time, giving Angel an odd look. Almost disappointed. But soon he turned back to the window. "Where are we going?"

"Someplace safe."

Spike pressed his forehead against the cold glass, mumbling in exhaustion. "...Send me home... Be fine..."

"Jesus, Spike, you just _dismembered_ a drug lord! I'm not leaving you in your apartment!"

They both fell silent. Spike responded only by tightening his fingers into a knot at his knee.

Feeling a bit foolish for losing his temper, Angel said, calmly this time, "There will be goons out there looking for who did it... It's not safe."

"Right."

"We'll head back to the firm. The security there..."

Spike sniffed caustically. "Because we've never had breaches before- -"

"These guys aren't wizards. Or demons. Or ninjas. They're just... Men with guns. We can handle that."

The argument sufficed. Spike went eerily quiet.

Angel agonized and glanced at him, feeling an overpowering desire to reassure him somehow. A hand on his shoulder? Words of encouragement? A darkly witty remark of some kind? When he searched his memory- -back, and further back- -he seemed to remember moments like that, times when he felt capable of making things better.

But in the end, he couldn't decide how to do it, so he, too, sat silently.

* * *

><p>The closer they came to the building, the more Spike visibly fidgeted.<p>

"I don't..." He shuffled, the frustration of having to explain this obviously getting to him. "Just, if it makes no difference, I'm fine taking a kip in an office- -"

Angel finally understood. The medical wing. Spike was set on not going back.

He could have insisted, forced him, dragged him kicking and screaming to the hospital bed. But the very thought of administering force felt like a grave sin, and so with a mixture of guilt and pity, Angel suggested, "How about my apartment?"

Spike stopped, but eventually relented, "Okay."

They entered the elevator silently, and rode it silently, too. Good thing it was a mercifully short ride, else, Angel knew, he might start rambling again, because he _always_ rambled.

When the elevator arrived and the door opened, Spike leaned as if to take the first step out, then hesitated. Angel reached out to reassure him, and placed a hand at the center of Spike's back.

Spike cringed, convulsed as if subjected to a painful shock.

"Oh- -god, I- -" Angel yanked back his hand. For a moment, he wrestled with the impulse to touch Spike's shoulder to apologize, but his mental faculties took charge before he did so. He floundered. "Sorry, didn't mean to..."

Spike, humiliated by the obviousness of his reaction, didn't say anything.

Angel didn't bother to turn on the lights; the dark felt comforting for the moment. Spike said nothing on the issue and made his way to the sofa. He paused, standing over it, then started to rearrange pillows.

Angel realized what he was doing. "Spike, no," he gently contradicted, approaching him from behind. "It's... It's okay, I don't mind- -the bed's more comfortable, and I can stay at a hotel..."

Spike, puzzled by the emergence of such generosity, swayed on his feet. He didn't turn to look at him.

"C... Come on."

Like a man coaxing a shy stray, he worked his way over the bed, all the while repeating assurances that he didn't mind, that he could bear sharing this sacred space if need be. Spike, wearing a sparse, lackluster gaze, shuffled forward, eventually seating himself on the bed.

"If, if you want to shower in the morning or..." Angel drew out a clean towel, ready to place it on the bed as an offering. "You can."

Spike, though, had meanwhile settled at the edge of the bed, his mind on vastly different things. The view from the window held his attention. Spike had always admired the view, and he wasted no time taking it in.

Then he spoke.

"I lied." He took a moment to watch the horizon flicker. "I don't have amnesia. I remember everything."

"That's..." Angel's fingers tightened at the ends of the towel, nearly rending it apart. He knew- -or at least, he had suspected as much from the moment he saw Radoslav's body. But hearing it was no easier. He helplessly babbled, trying not to give away how upset this really made him. "That's a-all right, I... Listen, whatever it is, whatever happened, we can get through it, just s-say the word and I'll do whatever I can to..."

"...Angel?"

"What?"

Spike was too weary to sound malicious, so the demand came out hollow and weak. "Leave."

* * *

><p><em>Angel tries to leave. He makes his way back down to the office, tries to sit in his chair and kill some time with paperwork, but even with the hallways devoid of workers, he feels crowded, choked. The walls keep closing in, tightening against his brain.<em>

_ So he tries to leave. Goes down the elevator and wanders out the front door onto the warm Los Angeles sidewalk still freshly gummed from pedestrian traffic. A headache so profound that it blurs his vision consumes him; for minutes he walks bleary-eyed, unable to discern faces or hear the gripes of people he bumps into._

_ There's nothing he can do. He finally stumbles onto a bridge and watches the river run its thick vein beneath his feet. He thinks he ought to call someone, but there's no one, and he knows that. No one can take all the centuries that have burned their way into him and make them feel less. He grips the guard rail and shuts his eyes, thinking that the spinning would stop, but the pain simply morphs back into view, writhing with all its spindly legs and brassy maws and compound eyes._

_ In that moment, he can also see the others, all back in their apartments, getting a long-awaited sleep. They breathe and their hearts beat in their beds._

_ He lets go of the rail and steps back. The pain rolls, like an animal breaching for breath, and disappears under the ink-black water._

* * *

><p>An hour later, Spike was giving him a rather unappreciative stare. "Thought you were getting a hotel room," he observed.<p>

Spike had returned to the couch since he left, and apparently hadn't made any attempt at sleep.

Still not entirely recovered from his dizzy spell, Angel said, "I was." Only when these words came out did he realize he was panting, short of breath. Spike started at him like he was crazy, so he self-consciously folded his arms across his chest. "I am. But I thought I'd- -you know, check on you. You didn't sleep?"

"No. Couldn't." Spike shook his head in the direction of the bed. "Has your stink." He gave Angel a curious sideways glance, and dragged his finger up and down the surface of the couch, listening intently to the rough whine of cloth. "Hell," he grunted, eyeing him. "You look worse for wear."

This is what Angel most despised: the studious, examining look, the one Spike uses when he's figuring him out. Infuriating exactly because it's often so right. Before Angel could escape his assessment, Spike made a noise that implied he had come to a conclusion.

When he next spoke, he sounded distant, like he was calling down a roaring street.

"You know what he did." His body went unnaturally still. So stationary that, for a second, Angel thought he must have imagined hearing anything. But the words buzzed again. "You know. Right?" He snorted. "Treating me like a broken doll. Having a bloody right conniption. 'Course you know."

Angel scrambled for some way to save himself. He gagged, tried to speak.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist. I don't care." Foggy, far away. Like Spike was talking with cotton in his mouth. "We both know vampires don't have a monopoly on being sick bastards. 'Sides. I'll be fine. Been through worse. Took 'a few weeks moping in a basement' to get over soul-crushing guilt, right?" Spike echoed Angel's words with a surprising lack of bitterness. "Doesn't take long for me to get over things I deserve."

Angel felt a pang of unexpected hurt and a tightness clicking in his teeth. "Spike..."

But as soon as the name left Angel's mouth, Spike heard the contradiction in his voice. Knowing exactly what had produced it, Spike huffed and hoisted himself straight. "You know why I got my soul?"

A reflection of light cut a sliver over Spike's face. The beam slid like the trail of a passing car, a path no doubt bounced from the street below and onto panels of glass from another building. The flicker startled Angel at first. He didn't speak, even after the light passed and the room darkened once more.

The immobile shadow spoke again, dryness cracking over every syllable. "Promise I wasn't just copying you... She didn't tell you?"

Angel nearly asked who, but it could only be one person. "Buffy."

"I tried to force her."

Though he desperately wanted to, he couldn't solidify a response. Confusion dipped hard against his tongue. She _hadn't_. She hadn't said anything, not even hinted it. He spoke to her and could smell Spike all over her and she still hadn't trusted him enough to...

"Yeah, that's right," Spike said, sounding wryly amused by Angel's shock. "Held her down, touched her, tried to pull off her..."

Murderous rage drained Angel's eyes. He couldn't believe he had listened to all of Spike's insistence of his feelings, his 'I loved her's and 'we had a good thing's... The visual flew before his imagination with maddening ferocity, a twist of violence and struggle, and the sudden urge to avenge. But instinctively, he knew that was the point. He forced it back down his throat and tried to sound neutral. "Y-you... didn't have your soul then," Angel said.

"_Don't_. Don't pretend that matters to you. Anyway. Shows the way the world works. Tit for tat."

"I didn't say..."

"'S not about you. Anyway, hell, who's to say it was about Buffy? Not like she's the only bird I've ever gotten rough with. She fought me off. Plenty couldn't."

"Please stop," Angel whispered out of sheer exhaustion.

Oddly, Spike obeyed.

"Sometimes- -" Angel tried to swallow, but his mouth and throat were dry and tightly wound. "Look- -sometimes- -bad things- -just _happen_. It's not always karma or the universe trying to balance things out, sometimes, bad things, they- -they're _random_."

Spike sat, eyes dimly watching him as he spoke. "Feeling real comforted right now. Thanks."

"Spike- -

"All right," Spike said, surrendering. "Fine. Maybe 'snot divine retribution. Still feels wrong, to feel too bad about it, you know? As if I've got any right to complain."

Finally finished, Spike lowered his head and stared at the floor in an attempt to find more to say. When he couldn't, he sighed and swept his vision back to the glittering landscape of the city, and the vastness of it caused him to briefly choke on it.

"I want my own bed. My own place."

Angel knew then he wouldn't be able to say no.

* * *

><p>When Spike called a few hours after being dropped off, he blubbered that he had tried to stake himself. Tried to fall on it but missed, the right failure that he was, and now he had slivers in his fingers and he was too drunk to pull them out.<p>

It was three in the morning. Angel hadn't slept in days, but he tore himself from the mattress to drive over. By the time he reached Spike's doorstep, Spike had more or less recovered from his fit, slivered and drunk though he was. He tried to take back the call by claiming it wasn't as bad as all that, but a sucking wound in his chest leaking with blood told differently. Angel came in, so Spike shuffled about the apartment like a restless spirit. He was clearly trying to entice him to stay; Angel was beginning to think the suicide attempt had been mostly a dramatic gesture, a means to request Angel's presence.

"You want a beer? Wanna watch the telly?"

Spike moved to the kitchenette, prying a bottle open with his shaking, bleeding hands. Angel watched his back for want of anything else to look at-Spike's apartment remained barren, after all-and without meaning to, he noticed a purple ring just above Spike's elbow, tucked right beneath where his sleeve was meant to conceal it.

"I should get back," Angel said.

"Why?" A thread of beer and froth trickled down Spike's elbow, turning a yellowish pink as it mixed with his blood. They stared at each other stupidly.

"I have work."

"You're running on empty."

Angel smirked despite himself. His body weighed heavily from exhaustion, his eyes threatening at any moment to glue shut. "Still need to work."

"Evil can't take a vacation? You're its CEO, aren't you?"

With that, Angel grunted and stood to his feet. For a moment he didn't move, only standing as if ready to do something. His eyes strayed back to Spike's bleeding hands. He gestured for them. "Can I?"

Too tired to put up a fight, and too far gone to think of an objection, Spike produced them, rolling the palms flat in from of him. Angel took hold of one and examined it clinically. The hand may as well have been an amputated specimen from the way he touched it; he turned it, noted the dozen oozing sores.

"...It would be hard to explain using all those resources finding you only to have you dust yourself."

"Yeah," Spike replied sorely. "Woulda been a shame to waste your time."

When Angel pressed his fingers close into the raw recess of Spike's hand and plucked a fat wedge of wood from his flesh, Spike flinched, but not from pain.

The sting awoke him to the brush of Angel's fingers and so he immediately shied.

"...It'll be fine," he reasoned with a grumble, tugging his hand away. "Fix it later." He poured beer on it over the sink. "Thought I'd cut my losses," Spike explained suddenly, despite the fact that Angel hadn't inquired. "Things are just gonna get worse."

"Th-that's not true. Everything's over now, but it's just... These things just take time, they take..."

"Time." Spike cut off Angel's stuttering to smirk and ponder their plight. "Well, least that's _one_ thing we've got in spades. Bloody energizer bunnies, aren't we? Just keep going and going..." He stooped his head, focusing on a thought that he didn't immediately set out to reveal. "You know, he, uh..." Spike blinked hard and shook his head dismissively. "It's the stupidest thing. But... He asked for forgiveness."

Angel knew better than to ask if Spike had given it. "He was desperate- -trying to save himself- -"

"No, not then. Not at his place." Spike placed the bottle in the sink and casually washed his hands. He spoke devoid of emotion, almost robotic, and his expression ran cold. "He would always..." Suddenly he drew his hands from the water and, still running with blood, he pinched his nails into the rim of the sink. He churned internally, twitched, and then nervously yammered, "He'd, he'd say he was sorry, every goddamn time, which is weird, in'nit? Because really, sorry isn't worth much, is it, if you just go on and do it again and aga-..." The rambling finally locked with his shivering jaw, at which point the words caught up with him and the horror of it struck.

Angel was perplexed by the display, even misreading it as remorse. Though he hesitated to do so, he reached out to touch his arm, and weakly attempted, "He deserved to die."

Spike shrugged him off. "Yeah? Don't _I_? It's what we do, Peaches- -we fuck people and then we say we're sorry as if matters." His eyes soured and scrolled along, following a small thread of pink snarling his fingers. His words hardened and lost their dangerous shake. "Such bloody hypocrites. We spend all this time chasing our tails looking for a way to redeem ourselves, but it's rubbish- -I know that now- -because I'm never going to forgive him. Not ever. Don't care if he _is_ in bits and pieces. And if some second-rate vamp-shagger can't get it, what do you figure our chances are?"

* * *

><p>The feelings Angel experienced in that moment should not have surprised him. The wound of losing Connor had yet to fully heal, and Spike had always been that kindred-brother-son. Paternal impulses, freshly scabbed, ebbed into a full bleed; <em>if I were a better person,<em> Angel thought, _I could do this_. He could wrap his arms about him, shush him, do the things he could never do for his son. Wipe the snot. Bandage the skinned knee. Exploit the magical, anesthetic properties of strategically-placed kisses.

But this was not a childhood pain, not the scrape of a boy slipping on the cement.

Oh, god, what do you do? How do you heal grown-up pains in a grown-up world? How had Angel haunted the world for hundreds of years and not properly figured it out?

* * *

><p>Angel goes back to his own apartment. His apartment and bed smell like Spike. Smell like Radoslav.<p>

He cannot sleep.


End file.
